THE  STRENGTH  TO  YIELD 


THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  A  C 
TEMPTATION 


BY  VIRGI' 


t  WELCH 
CO 


jolo  Cenari's  unfinished  portrait  of 
Dorris  Bedford  I' an  Lennep 


THE    STRENGTH 
TO    YIELD 

THE  PSYCHOLOGY  OF  A  GREAT 
TEMPTATION 


BY  VIRGILIA  BOGUE 


CUNNINGHAM,  CURTISS  &  WELCH 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

MCMIX 


Copyright,  IQOQ,   by  Virgilia  Bogue. 
All  rights  reserved. 

Date  of  Publication,  September  4,  1909. 


THE     MURDOCH     PRESS! 
SAN  FRANCISCO  . 


TO  VENICE  — 
THE  CITY  OF  DREAMS 


THE  STRENGTH  TO  YIELD 


THE  STRENGTH  TO  YIELD 


CHAPTER  I. 

Ah !    Surely  once  some  urn  of  Attic  clay 

Held  thy  wan  dust,  and  thou  hast  come  again 
Back  to  this  common  world  so  dull  and  vain, 

For  thou  wert  weary  of  the  sunless  day, 
The  heavy  fields  of  scentless  asphodel, 
The  loveless  lips  with  which  men  kiss  in  Hell. 

— Phedre. 

The  old  temple  loomed  up  before  them,  opalescent  in 
the  sunset  in  its  wealth  of  Pentelicon  marble.  From  far, 
far  away,  perhaps  beyond  Mount  Hymettus,  or  some 
field  of  asphodel  or  poppy,  came  the  bleating  of  sheep. 

"Oh,"  said  Dorris,  as  she  climbed  the  high  steps,  "oh, 
to  be  free,  free !  To  be  a  dryad  in  the  Arcadian  age, 
with  all  of  forest  liberty  and  never  a  rite  or  law.  Can't 
you  hear  the  piping  of  some  goat-foot  Pan  as  he  sings 
to  the  wood-nymphs?  Listen — the  sheep!" 

She  dropped  parasol  and  gloves  and  stretched  a  slender 
white  arm  toward  the  red-purple  glow  of  the  sunset  and 
the  delicate  pinks  and  blues  of  the  Cyclops,  and  cried, — 

"  Descending  fast  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 
Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconquered  Salamis." 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  you  always  have  an  apt  quotation. 
I  confess  this  time  I  know  its  author,  and  will  gamble  I 
even  know  the  canto  it  appears  in,"  and  the  Honourable 
Roland  Barker  sat  down  on  the  lower  step  of  the  Par- 
thenon in  servile  attitude,  his  eyes  on  the  vision  in  pink 
with  its  Rossetti  head  thrown  back  in  a  flute  of  the  stately 
Doric  column. 

17 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

She  looked  down  upon  him  in  mock  condescension. 

"Now,  Mr.  Barker,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to 
tell  me.  Mr.  Rossetti  would  have  loved  to  paint  me  as 
I  stand  here  at  the  very  end  column  of  Athena's  tower, 
with  my  head  a  veritable  shower  of  gold,  and  my  eyes 
as  blue  as  the  ^Egean,  my  slenderness  accentuated  by  the 
severe  flowing  lines  of  my  dress  as  delicately  pink  as  the 
faint  light  on  the  Areopagus.  And,  pray,  what  would 
Mr.  Rossetti  have  named  the  picture?" 

Dorris  laughed. 

He  reflected  a  moment,  gazing  into  the  searching  blue 
depths  of  her  eyes. 

"He  would  have  called  it  'First  of  Studies  in 
Shadows.'  " 

"And  what  would  the  second  have  been?" 

"Ah — I  would  have  left  the  choice  to  Mr.  Rossetti." 

"Mr.  Barker,  you  are  not  clever.  I  gave  you  a  chance 
to  be  epigrammatic.  You  have  made  a  most  common- 
place remark." 

"What  a  fortunate  thing  I  have  a  sense  of  humour,"  he 
laughed. 

"But  the  Acropolis  at  sunset  is  no  place  for  the  com- 
monplace. Don't  quibble,  and  I  won't;  for  to  me  this 
temple  is  more  sacred  than  St.  Peter's  and  far  more  awe- 
inspiring.  I  wonder  if  it's  its  sheer  beauty,  but  I  think 
not  altogether,  for  at  this  hour  I  seem  to  remember.  I 
can  almost  fancy  I  lived  here  once  long  ago;  it  may  be 
the  mere  recollection  of  a  Tadema,  a  novel  or  poem  here 
or  there — but  think,  just  think!  Women  must  have 
watched  the  battle  of  Salamis  from  this  very  porch — 
See!  see!  there  are  the  ships,  and  there  the  long  walls  to 
the  Piraeus.  All  is  still  as  now ! — and  around  us  are  the 

18 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

shades  of  Ionian  women  watching  intently  in  their  soft 
robes.  The  temple  is  whole  again.  Within,"  her  voice 
softening,  "many  are  kneeling  before  the  chryselephan- 
tine statue  of  Athena,  praying  for  fathers  and  lovers. 
The  voluptuous  scent  of  incense  reaches  us  here,  and  we 
are  seeing  one  of  the  greatest  battles  of  time  to  the  set- 
ting of  the  sun  and  the  bright  Levantine  skies.  Did  Sala- 
mis  take  place  at  sunset?" 

"What  a  very  banal  remark!  Go  on  dreaming,"  was 
his  response. 

The  air  and  earth  seemed  hushed  forever — then  a 
great  boom  announced  the  departure  of  the  sun  this  glori- 
ous April  day. 

Henry  Van  Lennep  and  the  Norths  were  climbing  the 
high  steps  of  the  Parthenon. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Dorris!  Good  girl! — and  Barker! 
I'm  so  glad  you're  not  alone.  We  must  hurry.  The 
Propylaea  will  close  at  once.  Look !  They're  all  descending 
the  steps.  You  know,  Mr.  Barker,  I  thought  my  wife 
might  not  even  hear  the  warning  bang  that  nearly  popped 
my  ears  off,  and  I  thought  she'd  be  perverse  enough  to 
leave  you,  to  muse  by  herself  about  Byron's  eyes  or  Keats's 
curls  or  some  such  rot,  and  I  didn't  want  her  to  be  caged 
here  for  the  night.  Hey!  Dorris,  how  would  that  have 
been?" 

"My  good  Mr.  Van  Lennep,"  interposed  Barker,  "you 
mistake  Mrs.  Van  Lennep's  attitude  toward  me.  Had  I 
been  young,  she  might  have  fled;  but  being  old,  she  has 
had  a  true  youthful  pity  for  me,  and  we  have  had  a  most 
sensible  argument.  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  told  me  the  opinion 
of  one  of  my  favorite  writers,  that  the  appreciation  of  a 
sunset  —  no  matter  in  what  country  —  denoted  the  pro- 

19 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

vincial  temperament.  I  said,  according  to  that,  I  was  a 
resident  of  Hammersmith." 

"I  say  the  same,"  remarked  the  saucy  Grace  North. 

"I  am  urban — distinctly  urban,  then,"  resumed  Van 
Lennep,  "and  have  a  suburban  wife.  The  trouble  here  is, 
one  really  doesn't  breathe  fresh  air.  The  eternal  per- 
fume in  it  is  too  funereal.  It  is  a  funeral  of  the  entire 
place — dead,  rotten,  decaying." 

Dorris  smiled.  They  had  left  the  Acropolis.  Barker 
looked  straight  ahead  as  he  picked  his  way  down  the 
short  cut  to  the  main  road. 

"That  is  what  makes  it  so  wonderful,"  sighed  the  for- 
mer, "the  roses  are  so  perfumed.  There  has  always  been 
this  same  fragrance  in  the  Eastern  twilights;  even  Italian 
ones  would  seem  trite  after  them.  It  adds  to  the  divine 
beauty  of  it  all.  It  is  like  going  into  the  cathedral  of 
Granada  and  breathing  its  faint  incense  after  a  teeming 
rain  in  the  town,  to  come  to  this  tragic  land  from  the 
bustle  of  others.  For  my  part,  I  think  I  love  it  better 
now  than  I  would  have  in  its  Golden  Age,  when  it  was 
a  boast  and  show." 

"I  never  thought  you  affected  quite  such  an  artistic  pose, 
Dorris.  Really,  it  seems  almost  natural.  I  hope  it  goes 
out  of  date  soon,  however,  for  I  am  either  not  clever 
enough  to  do  justice  to  it  or  else  too  clever  to  attempt," 
laughed  her  husband. 

Grace  North,  following — her  arm  linked  in  her 
mother's  as  they  walked  slowly  down  the  broad  avenue — 
was  wondering  why  she  had  married  him.  She  watched 
the  tall,  slender  creature  before  her  and  her  grace- 
ful movements.  Yes,  why  had  she  married  him — was  it 
money?  But  perhaps  it  had  been  a  love-match.  "Well, 

20 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

each  to  her  own  taste."  She  felt  there  was  a  mystery 
about  Dorris  Van  Lennep;  at  least,  that  impression  had 
been  conveyed  to  her  by  the  girl's  every  word  and  look. 
It  was  a  strange  thing  that  so  old  a  man  as  the  Honour- 
able Mr.  Roland  Barker  evinced  so  deep  an  interest  in 
her.  Was  her  personality  so  marked  that  it  gave  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  vampire?  At  all  events  her  own  phleg- 
matic temperament  felt  drawn  towards  that  of  the  other 
woman  on  entering  a  room. 

But  the  trend  of  her  thought  suddenly  changed. 
The  little  party  had  arrived  at  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
stitution. The  band  in  the  park  was  playing  a  merry 
tune  and  hundreds  of  loiterers  had  met  before  the  Royal 
Palace  to  discuss  over  the  tables  their  liqueurs  and  the 
day's  rehearsal  for  the  sports  at  the  Stadium.  It  was  a 
gala  time  for  Greece.  Carriages  passed  to  and  fro,  and 
daintily  gowned  women  alighted  at  the  various  hotels  in 
the  Place. 

Grace  overheard  Mr.  Barker  say  to  Mrs.  Van  Lennep 
when  they  had  paused  to  make  their  adieux,  "Then  good- 
night. If  you  wish  to  prove  your  allegiance  to  Byron,  be 
ready  to  go  to  'Sunium's  marbled  steep'  to-morrow  at 
nine.  I  have  an  excellent  guide  and  the  trip  is  com- 
paratively easy,  I  am  told.  Well,  Mr.  Van  Lennep, 
what  do  you  think  of  my  scheme?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied.  "My  interest  in  the  coming 
Olympic  games  is  greater  than  that  I  have  for  cut-and- 
dried  temples  of  archaic  origin.  Good  swimming  prac- 
ticed to-morrow,  you  know,  followed  by  running  in  the 
Stadium  in  the  afternoon.  If  you  have  a  good  guide, 
however,  I  shall  let  Dorris  have  the  privilege  of  being 
escorted  by  you,  provided  she  is  here  by  six  sharp." 

21 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Thank  you.  I  am  sorry  you  will  not  join  us.  We 
shall  be  back  by  that  time.  What  a  night,  Mrs.  Van 
Lennep — and  Venus  is  the  evening  star!  It  is  for  all  the 
world  like  the  Vale  of  Cashmere." 

Dorris  said  good-night,  and  left  Mr.  Barker  and  the 
Norths  to  go  to  their  hotel,  while  she  walked  with  her 
husband  across  the  Place  to  the  Hotel  de  la  Grande  Bre- 
tagne.  As  they  passed  through  the  corridor  her  husband 
fancied  too  many  heads  turned  and  that  he  heard  a  voice 
repeat: 

"Mon  Dieu!    Quelle  belle  femme." 

He  eyed  his  wife's  beauty  jealously  a  few  minutes  later 
as  she  arranged  some  crimson  flowers  in  a  bowl,  which 
bore  the  card,  "Comte  Henri  de  Gismond,"  —  saying 
hotly,  "Dirty  cads,  foreigners — whole  crowd !  Damned 
dirty  cads." 

Dorris  bent  her  head  over  the  Greek  roses,  inhaling 
their  sweetness,  and  smiled. 


22 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  from  the  City  of  the  Violet  Crown 
Have  watched  the   sun  by  Corinth's  hill  go  down, 
And  marked  the  "myriad  laughter"  of  the  sea 
From  starlit  hills  of  flower-starred  Arcady. 

— Ravenna. 

To  MRS.  THEODORE  GUNTER, 

White  Villa,  Back  Bay  Station,  Brookline,  Mass. 

From  MRS.  HENRY  VAN  LENNEP. 

HOTEL  DE  LA  GRANDE  BRETAGNE, 

ATHENS,  Easter  Sunday,   1906. 
Dearest  Cordelia, 

By  now,  no  doubt,  you  have  either  become  conjectural 
about  my  recent  matrimonial  bond,  or  else  have  decided 
that  I  am  having  such  a  good  time  that  I  have  already 
forgotten  your  dear  advice  and  dearer  talks.  If  you  have 
been  conjectural  at  all,  your  surmises  have  doubtless  been 
correct;  but  as  years  ago,  at  school  I  remember  when 
asking  for  money  that  I  always  waited  till  the  end  of 
my  letter,  and  Daddy  would  forgive — now  I  am  going 
to  postpone  all  disagreeables  until  the  end  of  this  letter. 
Don't  turn  to  the  last  page!  All  in  good  time — and  I 
am  writing  you  a  long,  long  letter. 

It  is  so  refreshing  to  know  I  have  one  real  friend  in 
the  world  who  will  understand  and  sympathize. 

To-day  has  been  the  red-letter  day  of  my  life.  With  the 
Honourable  Mr.  Roland  Barker  and  a  charming  drago- 
man, Alexander,  I  went  to  that  most  awe-inspiring  and  won- 

23 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

derful  spot,  Sunium,  a  real  Arcady  in  this  Arcadian  land ! 
He  is  an  Englishman  of  some  sixty  years,  perhaps,  of  the 
best  class — a  litterateur,  a  man  of  the  world,  an  artist  and  a 
scholar,  not  omitting  his  keen  sense  of  hum6ur  and  sublime 
understanding.  We  had  a  day,  Cordelia,  that  I  shall  never 
forget.  And  the  tragic  part  of  it  all  seems  to  me  to  be 
in  the  fact  that  the  Honourable  Roland  Barker  is  an 
old  man  and  a  married  one,  and  that  I  am  a  young  woman 
and  a  married  one.  Had  I  been  able  to  find  such  a  man 
of  younger  years,  ours  would  have  been  the  grande  passion 
of  history.  As  it  is,  Mr.  Barker  is  far  younger  than 
Harry.  Harry  never  was  young  or  never  will  be — whether 
he  be  seven-and-twenty  or  seven-and-seventy,  and  I  shall 
pique  your  patriotism  by  saying  that  he  is  the  personifica- 
tion of  the  commercialism  of  our  commercial  country.  But 
we'll  leave  that  for  later  on,  for  I  know  you  are  a  good 
American,  and,  besides  that,  wish  to  feel  that  I  am  happy. 

So  for  my  Easter  Sunday  of  dreams!  We  took  the 
train  to  Laurium,  the  old  silver  mine  of  that  beauty-loving 
cult  commonly  called  the  Ancient  Greeks,  and  all  our  trip 
seemed  to  be  a  mass  of  green  meadows,  olive  groves,  and 
poppy-covered  fields,  with  a  stately  cypress  now  and  then 
standing  erect  and  solitary  in  its  tall  slenderness.  To  me 
the  cypress  is  the  emblem  and  symbol  of  Greece,  for  it  is 
so  beautiful,  sad,  and  wholly  appropriate. 

At  Laurium  a  carriage  and  pair  awaited  us,  and  after 
Alexander  had  climbed  up  by  the  driver,  and  Mr.  Barker 
and  I  were  seated,  the  horses  began  at  a  good  trot  the 
drive  to  the  Temple  of  Neptune.  I  confess  I  was  a  little 
disappointed  at  this  stage,  owing  to  the  barren  green  of 
the  surrounding  country,  but  Mr.  Barker  kept  me  inter- 
ested until  we  came  in  sight  of  our  temple. 

24 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

The  approach  cannot  possibly  give  one  an  idea  of  its 
real  beauty,  for  all  one  can  see  before  one  is  really  stand- 
ing in  the  temple  is  a  hill,  mounted  by  thirteen  Doric 
columns  of  Parian  marble  that  to  this  day  are  as  white 
as  the  note-paper  on  which  I  am  writing.  It  is  very  won- 
derful how  the  marble  from  Paros  retains  its  pure  shade, 
for  Cape  Colonna  is  the  most  exposed  portion  of  Greece, 
and  subject  to  disastrous  storms  (you  may  casually  re- 
member Falconer's  shipwreck),  while  the  Pentelicon  mar- 
ble, used  in  all  the  Athenian  temples,  has,  as  you  know, 
darkened  and  shown  the  effects  of  the  ages. 

To  gain  access  to  the  temple  one  must  leave  horses 
behind  and  ascend  a  rather  rocky  hill,  the  height  of  which 
is  inconceivable,  until  one  is  upon  the  temple.  And,  then, 
oh,  Cordelia!  in  your  forty  years  of  life  as  a  citizeness  of 
the  world  you  have  never,  I  know,  beheld  such  a  sight  as 
that  which  was  before  us. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  in  detail  that  spot  at  sight 
of  which  so  many  honeyed  lyres  have  broken  into  music 
and  so  many  golden  pens  have  written  immortal  song. 
At  the  cape  of  a  peninsula  and  on  a  high  precipice  pro- 
jecting into  the  sea  stands  the  lofty  white  temple,  made 
whiter  by  the  green  grass  and  blue  skies  and  waters  which 
veritably  outshine  sapphires! 

On  the  horizon-line  are  a  string  of  Greek  isles  over- 
lapping one  another,  each  fainter  and  fainter  until  Melos, 
the  last,  is  hardly  visible;  and  immediately  over  the  cape 
is  the  Island  of  St.  George.  One  looks  down  into  the 
crystalline  waters  made  clearer  by  the  white  sand. 

To-day  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  which  was 
an  inverted  bowl  of  blue.  After  mute  astonishment, 
speechless  joy,  then  spellbound  enthusiasm,  I  suddenly 

25 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

heard    Mr.    Barker's   voice   repeating   the   old,    familiar 
lines, — 

"Fair  clime,  where  every  season  smiles 

Benignant  o'er  those  blessed  isles, 
Which,  seen  from  far  Colonna's  height 

Makes  glad  the  heart  that  hails  the  sight, 
And  lends  to  loneliness  delight, 

There,  mildly  dimpling  ocean's  cheek, 
Reflects  the  tint  of  many  a  peak 

Caught  by  the  laughing  tides  that  lave 
These  Edens  of  the  Eastern  wave; 

Far  from  the  winters  of  the  West 
By  every  breeze  and  season  blest." 

And  so,  Cordelia,  how  can  I  attempt  to  say  more  after 
the  opening  lines  of  the  "Giaour?" 

Alexander  spread  a  cloth  over  the  lower  step  on  the 
shaded  side  of  the  temple,  and  there  we  talked  and  laughed 
and  ate;  also,  we  really  did  have  a  bottle  of  Samian  wine. 

Mr.  Barker,  always  tactful,  drew  me  out  imperceptibly. 
He  inquired  a  bit  about  my  life,  and  I  found  myself  con- 
fidentially talking  about  Daddy's  death,  my  friends,  etc., 
and  particularly  you.  I  told  him  how  you  had  prevented 
my  marrying  months  before  I  finally  did,  and  had  given 
me  good  advice  about  Harry  Van  Lennep ;  of  the  hateful- 
ness  of  Aunt  Minnie,  and  of  the  trials  of  living  with  her. 
And  when  I  had  told  him  much,  he  said: 

"And  your  wonderful  sense  of  beauty,  by  what  was  it 
inspired?  What  is  your  talent?  You  surely  express  it  in 
some  way." 

"I  only  wish  I  could,  Mr.  Barker,"  I  replied.  "I  draw 
a  little,  write  a  little,  sing  a  little — and  read  and  dream 
a  great  deal!" 

"Ah,  an  artist,  a  savante,  and  a  chanteuse  —  and  so 
young!" 

26 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

(You  see,  Cordelia,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  tell  him 
my  real  age.)  He  expressed  no  surprise,  but  made  me 
promise  to  stop  my  dreaming,  not  to  encourage  the  various 
aesthetic  tendencies  in  my  nature,  for  they  could  only  lead 
to  failure — never  to  happiness. 

At  this  I  told  him  the  things  I  cared  for  most  were 
the  beautiful  ones;  that  beauty  was  my  only  religion;  that 
I  loathed  the  commonplace.  And  Mr.  Barker  then  told 
me  that  it  was  only  the  commonplace  that  made  great 
beauty  in  any  line  possible. 

We  had  a  heated  argument,  after  which  he  suggested 
my  referring  the  topic  to  you,  which  I  am  doing.  He 
said  the  beauty  of  life  was  brought  about  only  by  simple 
things,  and,  oh,  Cordelia !  I  know  it  is  only  his  tactful 
way  of  veiling  the  fact  that  by  simple  things  he  meant 
love — and  he  knows  I  don't  love  Harry. 

"But,  Mr.  Barker,"  I  broke  out  without  second  thought, 
"I  had  to  marry  sooner  or  later.  My  life  with  my  aunt 
was  intolerable.  Harry  I  liked  more  than  any  of  the  rest. 
Besides,  with  my  ideas,  the  one  does  not  exist.  I  should 
never  love  anybody,  I  know." 

"The  interest  I  have  in  you  you  may  one  day  under- 
stand— perhaps,  never,  but  it  is  well  founded.  Don't  you 
see,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  your  husband  is  incapable  of  living 
in  your  world,  but  you  are  capable  of  living  in  his  ?  You 
have  something  of  the  Italian,  of  the  Renaissance  in  you, 
with  a  mad  thirst  for  freedom  and  beauty,  and  no  thought 
or  care  for  the  real,  practical  needs  of  life.  But  you  have 
brains  and  an  amount  of  adaptability.  He  is  typical  of 
modernity — a  man  of  good  family,  with  little  cultivation, 
but  much  love  for  you.  Every  day  and  every  hour  that 
you  keep  on  developing  and  expanding  according  to  your 

27 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

nature  you  will  find  life  harder  to  endure,  and  you  and 
your  husband  will  drift  further  apart.  There  will  be 
nothing  left  but — calamity! 

"It  is  to  tell  you  this  that  I  have  brought  you  here 
to-day.  For  I  have  seen  women's  lives  ruined,  and  I  want 
to  spare  yours.  I  have  not  known  you  long,  but  I  think, 
perhaps,  I  know  you  better  than  Mrs.  Gunter.  You  are 
young,  beautiful,  and — may  I  not  say,  a  little  selfish,  with 
a  kind  heart  and  a  brilliant  mind.  Don't  you  see  if  you 
were  to  bring  yourself  down  to  your  husband's  level,  as  it 
were,  interest  yourself  more  in  his  life  and  line  of  thought, 
it  would  be  better  for  you  both  ?  Then  you  will,  yourself, 
develop  in  another  line — that  of  self-knowledge. 

"It  is  hard  for  a  girl  like  you  to  listen  to  an  old  man, 
harder  still  to  understand  my  reason  to  dare  to  speak  to 
you  so.  I  know  you  don't  understand,  but  I  do.  Had 
you  waited  long  enough,  doubtless  your  life  would  have 
been  led  to  suit  your  own  tastes.  But  you  have  not  chosen 
it  so.  Now  that  you  are  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  lead  your  life 
as  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  should.  Do  you  understand?" 

At  first  I  could  have  killed  the  Honourable  Roland 
Barker  there  on  the  steps,  but  I  realized  the  truth  in 
everything  he  told  me,  and  that  word  "calamity"  hurt.  It 
shall  never  be  that,  Cordelia — never,  never  1 

Driving  back,  he  told  me  gently  that  many  men  in 
the  world  might  take  advantage  of  me  by  clever  parrying 
or  absolute  lies,  and  he  asked  me  to  try  to  take  his  advice. 

And  so  to-night  I  have  been  puzzled — and  worried. 
Being  human,  I  have  been  foolish  enough  to  let  the  con- 
versation annoy  me,  and  feel  terribly  the  truth  of  Mr. 
Barker's  words.  I  know  he  considers  me  a  child,  yet  I 
cannot  understand  his  interest.  What  is  it? 

28 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

He  spoke  of  a  portrait-painter  who  has  been  in  Boston. 
He  wants  to  have  him  paint  my  portrait.  He  is  quite 
celebrated,  I  believe.  This  is  apropos  of  nothing,  only 
it  happens  to  be  the  artist  you  told  me  of.  I  have  forgotten 
his  name,  but  remember  you  said  he  was  charming. 

I  feel  to-night,  cherie,  the  need  of  some  one  I  love  near 
me.  I  wish  you  were  here.  Poor  Harry!  If  I  could  only 
grow  fond  of  him. 

Always  much  love, 

DORRIS. 

P.  S. — I  forgot  completely  that  the  Olympic  games 
open  a  week  from  to-morrow,  or,  rather  from  to-day,  it 
being  2  A.  M.  The  king  and  queen  of  England  are  com- 
ing on  for  them.  They  will  be  very  interesting  and  they 
are  to  take  place  in  the  beautiful  new  Stadium. 

D.  V.  L. 


29 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  III. 

Men  with  their  heads  reflect  on  this  and  that — 
But  women  with  their  hearts  on  Heaven  knows  what. 

— Don  Juan. 

Grace  North  and  Dorris  Van  Lennep  were  walking 
their  horses  down  the  Mount  Lycabettus  road.  The 
midday  glare  was  becoming  intolerable,  and  both  wished 
themselves  in  their  respective  rooms. 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  what  are  you  going  to  do  on  leav- 
ing Athens?"  repeated  Grace  for  the  third  time. 

"Ah,  excuse  me.  That  is  a  point  on  which  we  are  un- 
settled. I  forgot  to  tell  you  Harry  got  a  cable  to-day 
from  his  mother.  His  father  is  ill,  and  incapable  of 
managing  his  business  affairs.  Of  course  he  looks  to  his 
son  for  help." 

"Then  it  means  America?" 

"Not  for  me,  I  hope,  though  Harry  will  be  obliged  to 
go.  He  is  securing  passage  to-day,  I  believe,"  and  Dor- 
ris lapsed  into  silence  again. 

Grace  found  it  quite  impossible  to  see  her  features 
under  her  heavy  green  veil,  and  divining  that  the  other 
woman  was  in  a  mood,  she  did  not  chatter.  They  con- 
tinued down  the  winding  road,  and  the  only  sound  was 
an  occasional  stumble  of  Mrs.  Van  Lennep's  horse.  Each 
time  she  used  a  tighter  rein,  and  Grace  thought  she  looked 
worried. 

At  last  Dorris  smiled,  and  said,  "Fancy  a  country  like 
this  having  such  a  noon!  My  eyes  are  burning.  I  can- 
not stand  the  glare,  can  you?" 

30 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Oh,  I  am  used  to  it,  you  see.  I  know  the  tropics  so 
well." 

Dorris  having  heard  this  remark  some  twenty  times, 
answered  rather  sharply,  "This  is  not  the  tropics.  Are 
you  going  to  the  Legation  to-night?" 

"What  Legation?    Nothing  at  the  American,  I  know." 

"Oh,  English,  of  course,  of  course." 

Silence,  in  which  Dorris  wondered  if  she  could  spend 
the  remainder  of  spring  and  all  the  summer  with  the 
Norths.  She  realized  the  stupidity  of  her  manner  to- 
ward Grace,  but  there  was  something  in  the  girl's  make- 
up that  antagonized  her. 

"Grace — if  I  may  take  the  liberty  to  call  you  that — 
I  don't  mean  to  be  irritable.  Blame  it  on  the  glare.  Do 
you  think  you  and  your  mother  could  endure  my  society 
until  Harry  returns?" 

Grace  laughed. 

"We  might  try.  We're  off  for  Venice  by  the  Austrian- 
Lloyd  to  Trieste  the  day  before  the  Marathon  race.  We 
will  be  unable  to  get  in  all  the  games.  But  every  day  for 
eight  days  or  so  will  be  enough.  By  the  way,  let's  trot 
a  little.  Stadium  exercises  are  at  two,  and  we  must  not 
be  late.  We  are  almost  on  a  level  now.  Really,  Mrs. 
Van  Lennep,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  should  love  to  have 
you  with  us.  From  a  purely  selfish  point  of  view,  you 
would  be  a  jolly  comrade  for  me,  and  I  could  do  so  much 
more  with  a  young  married  woman  along.  You  would 
chaperon,  you  know,  when  mother  was  tired." 

"The  role  of  chaperon  is  unknown  to  me.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  Miss  North,  I  am  younger  than  you." 

"Really!    How  strange!" 

"Very!" 

31 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

If  the  Honourable  Roland  Barker  had  heard  the  rest 
of  the  conversation  his  very  flattering  opinion  of  Mrs. 
Van  Lennep  might  have  been  revised. 

When  the  young  ladies  arrived  at  the  Grande  Bre- 
tagne,  they  found  Count  Gismond  and  Harry  Van  Len- 
nep dancing  attendance.  Harry  dismounted  his  wife  and 
remarked  quite  gaily: 

"Well,  little  girl,  had  a  good  ride  in  this  hot  hole? 
Passage  on  the  Romanic  from  Naples  on  Monday — week 
from  to-day.  I'll  be  really  glad  to  get  away." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Van  Lennep,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  has  prom- 
ised she'd  come  to  Venice  with  us.  Can't  you  arrange  it, 
and  come  over  yourself  later  in  the  season?"  put  in  Grace 
North. 

"Child,  alive !  I  should  miss  her  far  too  much.  What 
do  you  say,  Dorris?" 

His  wife  made  no  reply,  but  looked  bored.  Miss 
North  and  her  escort  bade  them  good  morning,  and 
walked  over  to  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre. 

Dorris,  her  head  high,  her  crop  under  her  arm,  led 
the  way  to  their  sitting-room.  She  closed  the  door  after 
them  and  locked  it,  looking  steadily  at  Harry.  Lifting 
her  veil  she  said  quite  calmly: 

"Harry,  I  am  not  going  to  America  with  you." 

"Come,  little  girl,  you  can't  threaten  or  bully  me,"  and 
Harry  seized  his  wife  by  the  wrists  and  laughed.  "Kiss 
me,  girlie." 

He  raised  her  head  and  kissed  her. 

"I'd  let  you  stay,  but  I'd  miss  you  so." 

Dorris  struggled,  picked  up  her  crop,  and  shouted,  "I 
said  I  was  not  returning  with  you.  I  meant  it!"  and  she 
lashed  her  whip  through  the  air. 

32 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Well,  what  does  the  romantic  Dorris  plan  doing? 
Something  interesting,  eh?  Doesn't  she  look  handsome 
in  a  temper?  She  thinks  she  can  bully  me  into  letting 
her  stay.  She  can  stay — but  no  bank  account  on  me — 
no  letter  of  credit  or  that  sort  of  thing."  Harry  laughed. 

"Don't  be  so  dull,  Harry,"  she  started  to  explain,  "the 
ten  thousand  Daddy  left  on  my  birthday  so  long  ago, — 
it  would  be  very  easy  to  get  hold  of.  As  for  the  rest  of 
my  money  that  I  do  not  come  into  until  next  year,  with 
legal  aid  I  might  easily  get  the  interest  of  it  which  Aunt 
Minnie  has  been  so  kind  as  to  usurp.  I  could  go  to 
Africa,  Budapest,  London,  or  wheresoever  my  fancy  dic- 
tated. You  are  the  under-dog,  Harry,  and  you  must 
bark." 

"It's  a  great  pity,"  he  retorted,  "that  your  father  was 
a  millionaire.  If  you  had  had  nothing  left  you,  you 
would  have  been  the  under-dog,  and  you  wouldn't  even 
have  barked."  He  walked  slowly  over  to  the  window 
opening  on  the  terrace  and  stepped  out. 

Dorris  followed  him. 

"You  had  better  dress,  Dorry,"  he  said,  "the  Place  is 
already  full  of  people.  Do  look  at  the  carriages!  I 
must  say  there  are  some  rather  smart  women  in  town. 
But  possibly  you  do  not  wish  to  go  to  the  Stadium  on  this 
fine  opening  day  of  the  Olympic  games.  Perhaps  you 
do  not  wish  to  see  King  Edward  march  across  the  horse- 
shoe, for  you  would  have  to  rise  when  the  band  struck 
up,  'God  Save  the  King !'  It  might  humiliate  you  to  rise 
for  royalty.  Your  dignity  is  such  that  it  would  be  offended. 
So  you  are  going  to  stay  alone  in  Europe?  The  gos- 
sips in  Boston  will  have  much  food  for  talk.  I  think 
the  Norths  would  be  rather  edifying  companions  for  you. 

33 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

You  know  if  it's  such  a  simple  matter  to  procure  a  letter 
on  the  various  stocks  and  bonds  you  hold,  you  can  do  so. 
I  will  concede  coming  over  again  as  soon  as  father  picks 
up.  You  have  won  the  game.  Victory  is  yours." 

Through  Dorris's  mind  flashed  the  memory  of  her  own 
father's  illness  and  death  and  the  greatest  and  only  grief 
she  had  known.  She  walked  over  to  her  husband  and 
touched  his  sleeve. 

"Dear,  I  hope — I  hope — he  gets  well.  I  do.  I  do!" 
Her  own  aching  memory  had  evolved  sympathy  for  the 
sorrow  that  threatened  him.  Likewise  the  memory 
brought  on  a  paroxysm  of  sobs  as  Harry  held  her  close. 
"Don't  leave  me,  Harry,  please,"  she  breathed. 

Her  husband,  moved  beyond  words,  kissed  her  wet 
eyes.  After  a  bit  she  became  calm,  and  he  carried  her 
to  a  chair. 

"Don't  worry,  girl.  It  is  not  so  serious,"  he  assured 
her.  "Stay  with  the  Norths.  It's  all  right.  I  was  a 
selfish  brute,  but  you  do  things  queerly,  dear.  You  never 
coax.  Come,  I'll  send  up  for  Susan.  Primp,  and  be 
pretty  to-day." 

Many,  many  times  through  long  days  and  sleepless 
nights  she  was  fated  to  curse  her  husband  for  his  sub- 
mission. At  such  times,  we  do  not  see, — we  cannot;  and 
the  thing  inconsequential  which  occasionally  makes  his- 
tory, that  ruins  the  lives  of  men  and  women — in  itself 
trivial — had  come  to  Dorris  Van  Lennep. 


It  was  a  lively  throng  that  met  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Grande  Bretagne,  and  Mrs.  Harry  Van  Lennep  seemed 
the  happiest  one  in  it.  She  was  at  least  the  prettiest  in 

34 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

her  inevitable  shade  of  pink.  At  any  rate,  Count  Gis- 
mond,  the  Honourable  Roland  Barker,  and  Porter  Free- 
man did  not  find  time  to  look  from  her  to  Miss  North 
who  was  charming  in  her  smart  white  serge. 

Dorris  had  a  chance  before  they  stepped  into  their 
carriages,  however,  to  take  Grace  by  the  arm  and  whis- 
per, "I'm  going  to  stay,"  and  when  the  young  girl  looked 
up  at  her,  she  absently  turned  away. 


35 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  IV. 

And  Circumstance,  that  unspiritnal  god 

And  miscreator,  makes  and  helps  along 
Our  coming  evils  with  a  crutch-like  rod, 
Whose  touch  turns  Hope  to  dust — 
the  dust  we  all  have  trod ! 

— Byron. 

"A  gala  night,  indeed  1  And  in  the  City  of  the  Violet 
Crown.  Count  Gismond,  do  look  at  that  huge  electric 
bulb  over  the  gate,  and  this  mob.  Such  a  thing  should 
not  be  permitted.  Just  fancy  I  a  reception  on  the  Acrop- 
olis!" 

The  little  party  had  left  carriages  and  were  climbing 
toward  the  Propylaea. 

It  was  a  warm,  starlit  night,  and  on  the  way  to  the  ball 
at  the  British  Legation,  most  of  the  world  was  taking 
in  the  display  on  the  Acropolis  which  had  been  arranged 
by  the  Minister  of  Affairs.  The  Parthenon  was  illumi- 
nated by  pink,  blue,  and  white  lights  which  outlined  its 
Phidian  grandeur  in  the  black  night. 

There  was  a  dense  throng  within  the  Propylaea,  and  as 
the  little  party  in  which  Dorris  found  herself  had  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  together,  Mr.  Barker  suggested  the  ter- 
race as  a  meeting  place. 

Mrs.  North  and  her  daughter  were  in  a  group  with 
Mr.  Porter  Freeman  and  another  English  acquaintance, 
and  were  followed  closely  by  Mr.  Barker  and  Harry  Van 
Lennep.  Dorris  with  Count  Gismond,  apparently  had 
some  trouble  in  keeping  up  with  the  others,  catching  only 
an  occasional  glimpse  of  Mr.  Barker's  white  hair  or  the 
pink  rose  in  Grace's  brown  tresses  in  the  crowd  on  the 

36 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

steps  above.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase,  Dorris  turned 
to  Gismond. 

"Breathing  space  at  last,"  she  said.  "M.  de  Gismond, 
let  us  go  to  the  Parthenon.  This  crowd  is  insufferable." 

The  words  had  scarcely  escaped  her  when  they  both 
started  at  the  music  of  a  brass  band  in  a  popular  air. 
Dorris  looked  annoyed,  and  Gismond  nodded  under- 
standingly. 

"Yes,  they  are  desecrating  the  Parthenon.  It  is  there, 
and  we  might  as  well  take  it  in." 

They  picked  their  way  among  the  loose  marble  stones, 
and  Gismond  almost  lifted  Dorris  off  her  feet,  helping 
her  up  the  high  steps  of  Athena's  temple.  It  was  too 
true ;  there  was  a  brass  band  in  the  sacred  edifice,  and  not 
alone  that,  either.  Long  tables  in  rows  were  arranged 
as  if  for  supper,  and  they  heard  the  popping  of  corks  and 
many  a  light  jest.  Dorris  felt  the  sacrilege,  and  turned 
upon  Gismond  as  if  to  accuse  him. 

"I  simply  cannot  bear  this,"  she  said  irritably,  "can't 
we  find  the  others?" 

"Yes,  on  the  terrace,"  was  his  answer,  "but  the  crowd 
is  too  great  at  present  to  get  there  with  any  degree  of 
comfort.  Shall  we  try  the  Erechtheum?" 

"Anything  at  all,  so  we  get  out  of  the  sound  of  that 
noise.  They'll  be  playing  'Yankee  Doodle'  next." 

So  they  threaded  their  way  across  the  Acropolis.  This 
other  temple  was,  indeed,  deserted,  her  caryatides  stand- 
ing out  like  threatening  sentinels  in  the  gloom.  In  a  mo- 
ment Dorris  had  descended  the  steps  and  taken  a  seat 
upon  the  ledge  overlooking  Athens.  Below,  they  could 
see  the  coming  and  going  of  the  crowds,  while  occasional 
lights  flashed  on  the  north  end  of  the  Parthenon. 

37 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Strange  that  this  temple  shouldn't  be  visited  by  some 
one  besides  ourselves,"  mused  Dorris.  "But  Beauty 
doesn't  always  mind  the  indifference  of  the  multitude." 

"We-11,"  he  responded,  "Beauty  doesn't  have  to 
mind,  and  the  temple — ah!  it  is  made  more  beautiful 
by  that  which  is  within  it — the  golden  hair  and  red  lips 
of  Mrs.  Van  Lennep." 

Count  Gismond  crept  a  little  nearer  in  the  darkness. 

"M.  de  Gismond,  that  remark  was  superfluous.  Take 
me  to  the  terrace  immediately." 

"Ah,  the  American  has  as  much  of  the  coquette  in  her 
as  the  woman  of  France,"  he  said,  smiling. 

This  time  Gismond's  attitude  was  unmistakable,  and 
Dorris  rose  to  be  confronted  by  him. 

"Find  my  husband  at  once,  I  say !" 

"This  is  no  time  to  look  for  husbands.  What  wonder- 
ful lips  yours  are,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  even  in  this  light" — 

A  figure  was  silhouetted  on  the  marble  above,  and  Dor- 
ris caught  the  flicker  of  a  cigarette.  Confident,  now,  of 
safety,  she  cried: — 

"You  are  not  to  speak  to  me  so,  do  you  hear?" 

The  shadow  on  the  marble  shifted.  In  another  mo- 
ment, Mr.  Barker  was  offering  her  his  arm. 

"M.  de  Gismond,"  he  said,  "you  will  go  directly  to 
the  terrace  and  tell  Mr.  Van  Lennep  that  Mrs.  Van  Len- 
nep and  I  are  on  our  way  to  the  British  Legation." 
******* 

When  Mr.  Barker  came  for  his  dance  he  found  Dor- 
ris talking  to  Prince  Constantine.  She  was  seated  by  the 
fountain  in  the  rose-garden — a  vision  of  white  and  gold. 
He  awaited  his  opportunity,  and  when  she  was  alone  came 
forward  and  bowed. 

38 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Has  my  wild  rose  been  cultivated  yet?"  he  asked. 

"No.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  doesn't  stand  transplanta- 
tion as  well  as  she  promised  to.  The  wild  rose  fades  so 
fast." 

"Her  day  is  short,"  he  agreed,  "she  is  soon  like  her 
mother." 

"But  what  a  tragedy  that  a  man  never  becomes  like  his 
mother.  Am  I  not  quoting  one  of  your  favorite  epi- 
grams?" she  smiled. 

"Not  exactly,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  you  have  spoiled  it. 
In  the  first  place,  you  are  speaking  of  men  and  women;  I 
am  talking  of  roses." 

"How  ineffably  charming  you  are,  Mr.  Barker.  I  am 
going  to  cut  two  dances  just  to  hear  you  talk." 

"An  idle  pastime  for  so  young  a  girl." 

"Really,  Mr.  Barker,  you  are  the  first  human  being 
who  has  ever  made  me  hate  myself.  Even  Cordelia 
couldn't  do  it.  I  had  the  same  feeling — reversed — when 
I  read  'Dorian  Grey.'  It  made  me  hate  people;  now  I 
hate  myself.  I  wish  I  had  a  mother  to  tell  it  to.  I  have 
no  one  but  Cordelia.  I  thought  at  first  I'd  hate  you  as 
much  as  I  hated  'Dorian  Grey'  when  I  realized  its  power 


over  me." 


"Hm!    'The  only  way  to  get  rid  of  a  temptation  is  to 

yield  to  it.'     Is  that  what  troubled  you?" 

"Well,  you  see,  the  only  real  temptation  I  ever  did 

have  was  to  marry  Harry  Van  Lennep.     I  yielded." 
Both  laughed. 

"It's  a  bad  philosophy  for  children." 
"How  I  wish  you  were  young,  Mr.  Barker." 
"Why?    Were  I  young,  I  should  love  you.     As  it  is, 

you  make  an  old  man  young." 

39 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Then,  if  I  make  an  old  man  young  I  presume  you 
will  be  really  telling  me  in  a  minute  that  you  do  love  me." 

"Come,  let's  be  serious.     What  are  your  plans?" 

"Harry  leaves  to-morrow  for  Naples  to  catch  the 
White  Star  boat.  His  father  is  confined  to  his  bed.  His 
health  has  been  abominable  for  some  time." 

"Why  aren't  you  going  with  him?"  demanded  Barker. 

"I  didn't  want  to." 

"Ah,  you  told  me  the  real  reason  without  any  parrying. 
But  haven't  you  had  your  first  lesson?" 

Barker  studied  Dorris  for  a  time.  She  lifted  her  rose 
to  her  lips,  and  her  gaze  wandered  off  toward  the  house. 
She  had  no  wish  to  be  reminded  of  Gismond,  and  re- 
torted : 

"Why  don't  people  stroll  here?  They  all  seem  to  be 
in  the  court,  or  dancing.  How  very  stupid  of  them  I" 

"Where  are  you  going,  and  with  whom  are  you  to  stay?" 

"With  the  Norths.  Going  to  Venice.  I  am  so  glad! 
I  do  love  it  so.  Oh,  I  do.  Don't  you?" 

"I  am  going,  too,"  said  Barker,  who  previously  had 
had  no  such  intention.  "I  am  going  to  try  to  save  the 
golden  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  from  such  experiences  as  that 
of  to-night." 

"Sometimes  I  wonder  why  I  don't  get  angry  with  you 
at  your  touch  of  familiarity." 

"Because  it  comes  in  such  a  grand-daddy  way,  and  I  am 
such  an  ancient  and  harmless  individual  myself.  You 
will  stop" — 

"In  Venice?  Oh,  Danieli's  always,  never  anywhere 
else,  of  course." 

"Strange,"  he  mused,  "you  used  the  same  gestures  and 
the  very  same  words  that  my  friend,  the  painter  of  whom 

40 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

I  told  you  once,  did.  The  repetition  of  a  mannerism  or 
peculiar  phrase  suggesting  another  personality  than  the 
one  who  uses  it  is  among  psychological  oddities.  But  we 
must  not  discuss  telepathy  and  kindred  subjects.  Why 
are  you  not  spending  your  last  night  entirely  with  your 
husband?  I  really  shouldn't  think  he'd  stand  it.  He's 
probably  jolly  well  worried  by  now." 

"Mr.  Barker,"  she  said,  evading  his  question,  "I  have 
told  you  so  much  about  my  life.  You  have  divulged 
nothing  of  your  own.  Will  you  promise  to?" 

"Oh,  age  is  forever  dreaming  over  imaginary  episodes 
of  long  ago." 

"Is  youth  worth  its  price?" 

"If  you  call  the  price  getting  old?  Well,  youth  is 
the  oldest  thing  in  the  world.  Sit  where  you  are  and  I 
will  send  your  husband  to  you." 

Dorris  welcomed  her  husband's  hands  as  they  went  out 
to  her.  She  thought  of  weeks,  of  months,  without  his 
protection.  He  was  kind, — so  kind !  She  nestled  against 
his  shoulder,  and  there  they  sat  together  in  the  pale  star- 
light, while  the  marble  fountain  played,  Dorris  in  her 
white  and  gold,  her  radiant  head  against  his  black  coat, 
and  her  slender  arms  about  his  neck.  In  the  garden  was 
the  scent  of  a  hundred  roses  whose  language  in  every 
clime  is  Love. 

As  Mr.  Barker  wandered  there  for  a  smoke  an  hour 
later,  he  was  gratified  at  what  he  saw. 

"But  then,"  he  reflected,  "I  have  seen  the  real  pre- 
sentiment. This  is  only  a  tableau." 


41 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  V. 

For  thy  life  has  been  the  history  of  a  flower  in  the  air, 

Liable  but  to  breezes  and  to  time; 

As  rich  and  purposeless  as  is  the  rose, 

Thy  simple  doom  is  to  be  beautiful. 

— Marpessa. 

The  sun  was  drinking  the  lingering  drops  of  dew  from 
blade  and  poppy,  and  the  soft  cool  air  gave  promise  of 
another  perfect  day.  The  Zappieon  Gardens  were  green 
and  fragrant,  enjoying  the  rosy  dawn  and  its  silent  won- 
der. The  Olympieum  looked  younger  and  more  intact, 
its  ornate  Corinthian  beauty  challenging  the  more  stately 
and  less  decadent  edifices  on  the  Sacred  Hill.  At  least  so 
Dorris  thought  as  she  sat  by  Harry's  side  awed  by  the 
beauty  of  the  sunrise. 

"Harry,  tell  me,"  she  said  sweetly,  "can't  you  feel  the 
wonder  of  this  April  morning?  the  youth,  the  beauty 
of  it?  For  centuries,  Harry,  there  have  been  these  same 
spring  sunrises  with  their  hope  of  beautiful  days.  Think 
of  the  tragedies  and  farces,  and  battles  and  work,  and 
secrets  many  a  rosy  morning  like  this  has  been  sole  wit- 
ness of;  and  think,  too,  of  the  cruelty  of  spring,  ever 
young  and  ardent !  It  still  wooes  the  country,  but  Greece 
is  dead.  Still  the  sun  ripens  the  roses  in  these  gardens 
and  brings  the  trees  to  a  deeper  green,  just  as  it  did  twenty- 
five  centuries  ago,  but  it  changes  the  color  of  that 
marble."  She  looked  toward  the  Olympieum, — "And  it 
watches  us  grow  old.  Yet,  spring,  it  has  eternal  beauty, 
— it  is  always  young.  I  can't  explain  my  meaning,  Harry, 
but  why  do  things  inanimate  live  while  we  must  die?" 

42 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Ah,  Dorris,  what  a  cheerful  topic!  And  on  the  very 
day  I  am  leaving.  As  for  me,  the  universe  with  its  mar- 
vels and  atrocities — well,  it  has  never  given  me  sufficient 
worry,  to  think  about  intensely.  It  makes  one  morbid, 
really,  don't  you  think  so?" 

Dorris  did  not  reply.  There  was  a  long  silence,  broken 
at  last  by  a  lark.  Goat-bells,  too,  could  be  heard  in  the 
distance,  and  now  and  then  wagon-wheels.  The  world 
was  beginning  to  wake  up,  and  the  sun  to  be  warm.  Dor- 
ris finally  turned  and  looked  at  Harry  for  a  long  time. 
On  a  sudden  impulse,  she  broke  out: 

"Harry,  why  did  you  marry  me?" 

"Good  heavens,  child,  what  has  happened?  You  have 
rather  a  blue  outlook  on  life  in  general  to-day.  What  has 
struck  you?  Aren't  you  happy?" 

"I  am  serious,  Harry.    Why  did  you  marry  me?" 

"By  Jove,  you're  a  puzzle, — a  fascinating  devil.  I 
didn't  suppose  you'd  interest  me  so  much  after  three 
months.  You're  still  the  same  sweet,  misunderstandable 
being  you  were  before." 

"Is  that  why  you  married  me?" 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so." 

"But,  Harry,  I  like  you  less  than  before.  You  know 
that.  We  have  made  a  mistake.  You" — 

"Dorris,  stop  at  once.  Can't  you  be  half-way  decently 
agreeable  on  this  romantic  parting  thatyou  have  designed?" 

"I  felt  I  could  tell  you  better  now  in  the  early 
morning  before  you  leave  me,  than  at  any  other  time. 
Listen  to  me,  Harry.  We  have  made  a  serious  mistake." 

"If  you  mean  I  am  not  a  long-haired  poet,  and  can't 
write  sentimental  letters,  or  speak  to  you  foolishly, 
perhaps." 

43 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Precisely;  you  do  not  even  grasp  my  meaning.  That 
isn't  what  I  mean,  Harry.  We  can't  go  on  like  this  for- 
ever. I  tell  you  I  can't  stand  it.  I  am  unhappy.  You 
will  not  understand." 

"Dorris,  girl,  the  trouble  is  your  youth  and  enthusiasm 
have  blinded  you  to  common  sense.  This  infernal  dreamy 
strain  in  your  blood  is  enough  to  set  a  man  crazy." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  answered,  "I  have  always  loved 
to  day-dream.  Way  back  in  my  happy  and  unusual  child- 
hood when  I  was  but  eight  years  old  and  Daddy  was 
appointed  American  Minister  to  Italy,  where  we  went 
together,  I  liked  to  be  alone — to  imagine  things.  He 
left  me  in  Bologna  and  Florence  while  he  fulfilled  his 
social  and  official  duties  in  his  much-loved  Rome.  Yes, 
his  little  girl  Dorris  was  a  dreamer  then,  in  her  walks  in 
vine-clad  Tuscany  or  in  that  beautiful  Italian  garden 
where  she  read  so  much.  I  have  always  loved  to  romance, 
Harry.  After  all,  I  must  have  inherited  it  from  Daddy. 
Dear,  dear  old  Daddy!  Harry,  he  told  me  the  most 
fascinating  tales  from  his  fund  of  interesting  stories,  so 
that  during  his  absences  he  left  me  with  many  a  dream 
to  cherish,  many  a  study  to  pursue.  Under  his  tutelage 
I  acquired  more  general  information  than  during  my  years 
at  school  or  the  period  when  I  read  most.  What  dream- 
days  we  did  have  together,  Harry." 

"Do  you  know  that  Daddy  brought  me  up  merely  to 
spoil  me?  He  encouraged  my  every  caprice,  and  incul- 
cated the  belief  that  I  was  a  sun  in  the  universe  with  the 
rest  of  humanity  my  obedient  planets.  Lying  awake  at 
night  I  could  not  fancy  a  desire  that  I  knew  would  not  be 
granted  with  the  dawn.  I  see  his  mistake  now  that  he 
has  been  taken  from  me,  for  he  has  spoiled  me  entirely 

44 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

for  strangers.  It  would  have  been  different  if  we  could 
have  lived  together  forever,  but  you  see  all  the  trouble 
was  that  I  fancied  he  was  the  prototype  of  the  world  I 
was  to  meet.  He  was  so  sweet  in  all  the  little  things — 
and  how  patient !  We  read  much  together  and  he  laboured 
with  my  French  for  a  long  time.  One  day  I  remember  in 
Bologna  when  I  was  unusually  dull,  he  said  sweetly :  'You 
are  the  possessor  of  retentive  memory  and  keen  wit.'  I 
learned  this  phrase  by  heart,  and  consulted  an  English 
dictionary  in  private.  When  I  was  certain  I  had  mas- 
tered the  sentence,  I  confronted  Daddy  with  it,  and  I 
shall  never  forget  the  pleasure  it  gave  him. 

"He  was  a  pedant,  Harry,  but  there  never  lived  such 
a  delightful  one !  How  he  would  have  loved  to  see  Greece 
with  me.  It  was  one  of  his  most  cherished  dreams.  You 
see,  Harry,  I  always  bore  you  by  bringing  up  his  mem- 
ory. You  were  asking  me  about  dreams.  Why,  it  seems 
it  is  innate  in  me  to  dream.  I  even  romanced  on  our  return 
to  America,  when  I  was  beginning  to  develop  into  girl- 
hood. I  was  such  an  ugly  child.  I  met  Cordelia  at  that 
time,  and  I  rather  fancy  her  memory  of  my  mother's 
beauty  made  her  dread  the  time  when  I  should  be  pre- 
sented socially,  for  my  temporary  angularity  was  very 
unbecoming.  Cordy  could  not  understand  my  poetic  turn. 
To  her, 

'  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever.' 

"She  and  I  read  and  talked  together  much  about  the 
beauty  of  this  world.  As  I  was  always  encouraged  in 
these  talks,  Harry,  I  presume  I  cannot  understand  your 
practical  mind.  When  I  was  sent  to  Spafford  to  school, 
I  lived  entirely  in  the  novels  and  poems  I  read.  When  I 

45 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

first  arrived  there,  the  principal  reproved  me  once;  she 
never  got  another  chance  to  do  so,  however,  for  I  told 
her  I  would  write  to  Daddy  to  take  me  away.  Thereafter 
as  the  monitor  of  the  study  hour  passed  my  desk  and 
found  me  reading  of  the  Lily  Maid  of  Astelot,  her  hope- 
less love  for  Launcelot,  and  her  death  journey  in  the  gilded 
barge,  or  trying  to  comprehend  the  tragic  beauty  of 
Endymion,  instead  of  translating  'Nepos,'  she  pretended  to 
be  blind — and  I  smiled." 

"Yes,  Dorris,  and  I  suppose  'AH  Baba  and  the  Forty 
Thieves'  gave  you  restless  nights.  I  fancy,  then,  you 
dreamed  you  were  scalding  them  all,  in  pumice-stone  or 
porphyry  vessels  of  enormous  size.  What  would  have  in- 
terested you  most,  however,  would  have  been  your  yellow 
satin  trousers  and  black  hair.  Still,  I  understand  your 
weakness  in  preferring  to  dream  of  the  love-sick  Elaine, 
because  you  must  admit  you  do  not  look  like  a  Turkish 
harem.  You  would  never  please  a  Sultan.  You  could 
travel  alone  on  horseback  all  through  Turkey  without 
being  molested.  Your  yellow  hair  would  scare  them.  A 
pity  you  must  ever  wake  up  from  your  dreams.  Life  is  not 
a  Turkish  bath  composed  of  incense  and  yellow  satin 
trousers.  Dorris,  you  cannot  utter  a  sentence  without  in- 
dulging in  stilted,  flowery  language,"  he  laughed. 

"It  sounds  rather  pretty,  though,  because  it  sort  of  encir- 
cles your  affection  for  your  father.  It  is  really  beautiful, 
honey.  I  do  wish  I  had  known  him,  dear.  But  it's  all 
because  I  didn't  see  your  pretty,  pale  face  till  after  he 
died.  Did  you  ever  know,  Dorris,  speaking  of  romance, 
that  the  year  you  came  out  I  was  crazy  to  meet  you?  I 
read  loads  about  you  in  the  society  columns.  You  had 
a  lively  winter,  I  should  imagine — rather  a  jolly  success." 

46 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Dorris  did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  then  she  shook 
her  head  thoughtfully.  "It  was  a  sad  winter,  Harry, 
and  the  memory  of  my  partial  success  is  dimmed  by  that 
terrible  tragedy  that  came  so  early  in  my  first  season. 
Harry,  I  was  heart-broken.  You  see  all  I  ever  knew  was 
love — the  love  of  Cordelia  and  Daddy.  Harry,  it  was 
unutterable;  he  was  such  a  gentle  father  and  beloved 
comrade,  faithful  alike  in  shadow  and  in  sunshine,  at 
once  playmate  and  instructor." 

"Hush,  Dorris,"  said  her  husband,  "do  not  think  too 
much  about  that.  Do  you  know  what  an  artist  told  me 
when  he  heard  I  was  crazy  about  you?  It  was  this.  I 
am  glad  I  remember  the  exact  words.  'She  is,  for  her 
type,  without  fault,  the  type  of  the  fausse  maigre,  with  the 
pale  cheek,  the  red  mouth,  the  vivid  glory  of  the  hair,  and 
the  slender,  pointed  finger.'  " 

"How  sweet  of  you,  Harry,  to  tell  me.  Now,  who 
was  it?" 

"Don't  you  believe  it.  I  won't  tell  you,"  laughed  her 
husband.  "Dorry,  tell  me  something  about  your  mother's 
death.  It  will  not  give  you  so  much  pain  as  the  more 
recent  one.  Really,  this  was  a  jolly  idea  of  yours.  It  is 
quite  pretty  and  rustic  here.  Tell  me  about  her." 

"Harry,  Harry!  Rustic!"  said  Dorris.  "You  might 
as  well  stand  before  the  Knickerbocker  Trust  Company, 
and  say,  'How  rural!'  Don't  you  know  I  know  nothing 
of  my  mother?  Her  memory  has  always  brought  heart- 
aches to  Daddy  and  Cordelia.  Whenever  I  have  spoken 
of  her,  even  Cordy  has  seemed  apprehensive,  and  she 
was  my  mother's  best  friend.  I  shall  never  forget 
Commencement  Day  at  Spafford.  As  my  eyes  scanned 
the  audience  and  met  Daddy's  frank  gaze,  I  thought  of 

47 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

that  mother  I  have  never  known.  I  felt  I  had  a  right 
to  the  confidence  of  those  who  loved  me  best.  Somehow, 
that  day  a  sense  of  tragedy  awakened  in  me.  When  I 
answered  his  faint  smile,  it  seemed  to  me  there  was  some- 
thing inscrutable  in  his  face. 

"Immediately  after,  when  Daddy  surprised  me  by  tell- 
ing me  of  his  rental  of  the  Palazzo  Specchio-Torni  in 
Venice,  I  had  a  mad  desire  to  ask  him  about  the  mystery 
concerning  my  mother's  life,  but  did  not  dare.  During 
the  entire  summer  her  name  was  never  mentioned. 
Harry,  what  do  you  suppose  lies  at  the  bottom  of  this 
strange  mystery?" 

"Looks  like  a  lady  with  a  past,"  answered  her  husband. 

"Oh,  Harry,"  said  Dorris  reproachfully.  "How  vul- 
gar, how  inexcusably  vulgar,  you  are.  No  wonder  I  am 
unhappy.  I  was  speaking  of  something  near  to  my  heart. 
I  have  fancied  sometimes  she  is  still  living." 

"Nonsense!     What  are  you  driving  at?"  he  asked. 

"There !  You  are  coming  to  the  point.  I  am  'driving 
at,*  as  you  say,  the  fact  that  I  do  not  care  for  you,  that 
I  am  your  wife  and — " 

"Of  course,  you're  my  wife.  Let's  start  back  to  get 
some  breakfast.  Are  you  sorry  I'm  going?" 

"Not  the  least  bit  in  the  world,"  Dorris  answered 
frankly.  "I  am  sorry,  though,  about  your  father." 

"Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  Dorris,  that  since  we  were 
married  you  haven't  taken  life  quite  seriously  enough?" 

"Exactly;  it  has,  many  times,  now  my  honeymoon  is 
over.  It  has  been  hateful  to  me.  You  will  not  take  my 
talk  to  heart,  so  I  suppose  I  can't  hurt  you.  What  an 
absurd  time  we  have  had,"  she  said,  looking  down  the 
Avenue  de  la  Stade. 

48 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Perhaps  a  few  months'  absence  then  will  do  you  no 
harm.  Dorris,  I  should  like  to  make  you  love  me,  dear, 
but  I  can't.  All  I  ask  from  you  is  that  you  give  me  the 
right  respect,  that  you  be  faithful  to  the  name  you  bear, 
and  to  me.  Dorris,  keep  pretty  much  with  Mrs.  North. 
You  don't  know  very  much  about  men,  and  you've  had  no 
chance  to,  being  under  my  protection.  You're  young, 
you  know,  and  devilishly  handsome.  Come  on,  sweet- 
heart, I  say.  The  sun's  hot,  and  I'm  hungry.  I'll  never 
get  off  by  nine,  at  this  rate.  That's  the  girl!"  They  left 
their  secluded  seat  under  the  trees,  and  began  walking 
down  the  broad  avenue  leading  to  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
stitution. 

"Now,  Dorris,  I  know  it's  been  hard  for  you,  a  little," 
went  on  Harry,  "without  him,  or  Cordelia — and  it's  all 
strange  and  new.  We  haven't  got  levelled  down  yet. 
There  are  sharp  edges  to  both  our  natures  that  need  pol- 
ishing. Separation  will  be  good  to  think  in.  In  fact,  it's  a 
good  scheme,  this.  I'll  not  be  gone  so  very  long  anyway. 
And,  Dorris,  don't  you  think  it  isn't  because  you  don't 
care.  When  I  come  back  to  you,  it  will  all  be  different. 
Just  think  of  me  now  and  then,  and  be  nice  to  Mrs.  North. 
Take  her  advice  and  ask  her  about  things.  How  glad 
I  am  you  are  not  a  flirt.  I'm  so  glad  I  can  trust  you." 

"Here  we  are  at  the  Place,  Harry,  and  we're  late. 
It's  half-past  seven;  they'll  all  be  waiting." 

And  sure  enough  in  the  waiting  room  of  the  Grande 
Bretagne,  the  Norths  with  Porter  Freeman  and  the  Hon- 
ourable Roland  Barker  were  waiting  for  what  Porter 
termed  "the  lovers,"  with  fruit  baskets  for  Harry. 

"To  the  dining-room!"  shouted  young  Porter.  "No- 
body up.  We  have  the  whole  hotel  to  ourselves." 

49 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

They  breakfasted  at  a  prettily  appointed  table  in  the 
center  of  the  dining-room.  Mr.  Barker  continually  made 
fun  of  the  English  breakfast,  and  assured  Harry  he 
would  find  himself  in  better  condition  for  a  Greek  steamer 
when  he  got  to  Patras,  if  he  had  had  coffee  and  rolls  in 
his  room. 

It  was  really  a  children's  party  that  climbed  into  the 
carriage  and  drove  off  to  the  station.  Harry  vowed  he 
was  sorry  to  leave  as  he  stood  on  the  platform  breathing 
the  April  morning  air  and  looking  over  the  red,  poppy- 
covered  fields. 

He  had  a  chance  to  give  Mrs.  North  a  little  talking  to, 
and  to  say  good-bye  to  Dorris. 

It  was  merely,  "Be  good.  Remember  I'll  be  back 
soon.  Write  often." 

He  was  on  the  train  and  the  whistle  blew. 

In  her  room  an  hour  later,  Dorris  stared  at  her  face 
in  the  mirror.  Through  her  ears  was  ringing: — 

"How  glad  I  am  I  can  trust  you.  ...  Be  good.  .  .  . 
Remember  I'll  be  back  soon.  Write  often." 

How  extremely  considerate  of  him  to  say  good-bye  at 
all  I  Dorris  at  any  rate  was  glad  it  was  all  over,  that  he 
was  gone.  What  a  good-bye  for  a  bride ! 

"Yes,  he  shall  trust  me,  and  I  shall  be  true  to  the 
trust,"  she  ruminated.  "But  how  tiresome  not  to  be  in 
the  least  bit  alarmed;  to  treat  me  as  if  he  knew  no  man 
could  by  any  chance  get  me  away  from  him.  Oh,  dear 
me  I  I  could  laugh.  And  when  he  comes  back,  I  have 
half  a  mind  to  frighten  him, — just  upon  the  edge  of 
trouble.  Fancy  my  dear,  commercial  Harry  sharpening 
his  sword  with  some  Italian  count  or  Greek  prince.  Now 
if  I  might  manage  to  feign  something,  or  if  I  could  have 

SO 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

arranged  it  before,  he  needn't  have  left  me  with  such  a 
degree  of  assurance.  There  isn't  a  woman  in  the  world 
who  wouldn't  resent  it." 

She  took  up  her  father's  photograph,  and  examined  it 
rather  more  critically  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 
The  firm  jaw,  the  tender  eyes — firmness  and  tenderness 
personified.  As  a  husband,  had  he  ever  said  such  a  good- 
bye to  her  mother  as  she  had  heard  to-day?  She  did  not 
believe  it.  Her  mother  must  have  known  what  love  was. 
Why  had  Dorris  cast  it  out  by  her  rash  marriage?  She 
would  know  since  it  was  at  the  mainspring  of  life  I  But 
how?  Through  the  calamity  which  Mr.  Barker  had 
hinted  at?  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  that  a  great 
tragedy  would  be  a  welcome  substitute  to  the  dull  common- 
place wifehood  she  knew.  Then  she  realized  she  was  lis- 
tening to  her  own  voice.  "Dorris  Bedford,  you  are  mad, 
mad,  mad!  Don't  rant.  You  are  altogether  absurd." 

She  stood  looking  at  herself  until  the  music  in  the 
Place — it  was  a  Turkish  melody  she  heard — roused  her 
from  reverie. 


51 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  VI. 

'Tis  fate  that  flings  the  dice, 

And — as  she  flings — 
Of  kings  makes  peasants, 

And  of  peasants,  kings. 

— Dryden. 

From  MRS.  THEODORE  GUNTER, 
To  MRS.  HENRY  VAN  LENNEP. 

THE  WHITE  VILLA,  BROOKLINE. 
My  sweet  girl  D orris: — 

Your  second  letter  telling  me  of  your  intention  to 
remain  on  the  other  side,  has  but  just  arrived.  It  would 
have  been  very  difficult,  child,  to  have  answered  that  first 
sincerely.  But  you  have  driven  me  to  it,  and  so  e  cosi — 
here  goes! 

I  am  not  going  to  reproach  you  for  your  marriage 
the  least  little  bit,  but,  Dorris,  you  have  got  to  learn, — 
you  have  got  to  listen  to  me.  What  you  can  mean,  you, 
a  bride  of  three  months,  by  letting  your  husband  come 
back  here  to  his  sick  father  and  disconsolate  mother 
alone,  is  beyond  my  power  of  comprehension.  You  must 
take  your  marriage  as  a  serious  proposition,  and  the 
sooner  you  realize  this,  the  easier  your  life  will  be.  Get 
around  it  in  as  many  different  ways  as  you  please,  you 
have  obligations  as  the  wife  of  Henry  Van  Lennep.  You 
have  inherited  nothing  of  your  father's  art  of  living,  and 
as  the  development  of  this  art  is  my  one  and  only  talent, 
as  you  have  heard  a  hundred  times,  I  may  be  somewhat 
narrow  in  passing  strictures  on  my  little  golden-haired 

52 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

beauty.  Your  place  is  at  present  here  in  Brookline, 
whether  you  like  it  or  not.  Van  Lennep,  Sr.,  is  improving. 
Nevertheless  I  am  glad  Harry  will  be  here  soon,  as  it  is  my 
intention  to  have  a  talk  with  him. 

Who  the  Norths  may  be  that  you  are  traveling  with 
is  another  thing  beyond  me.  Child,  you  cannot  pick  up 
with  people  you  have  met  casually,  and  trot  around 
Europe  with  them.  I  have  decided  to  join  you.  I  know 
the  uselessness  of  suggesting  your  return,  so  will,  instead, 
have  you  under  my  eye  for  a  time,  at  least  until  your 
husband  returns  to  you.  Stay  in  Venice  and  I  shall  sur- 
prise you  there  some  day. 

Also,  Dorris,  you're  a  baby  I  Why  did  you  allow  an 
English  acquaintance  to  discuss  your  husband's  propen- 
sities ?  Such  a  thing  is  without  honour  or  precedent.  You 
who  are  always  ready  to  confide  in  the  few  friends  you 
make,  who  trust  implicitly  the  sincerity  of  the  preferred 
friendship,  cannot  realize  this.  In  our  training  of  you, 
your  father  and  I  neglected  much,  and  only  by  persever- 
ance can  I  ever  make  you  grasp  my  meaning.  You  seem 
to  take  Harry  and  matrimony  itself  as  a  joke.  But  there, 
pettie,  I  do  not  mean  to  hurt  you.  I  am  only  trying  to 
help  you  as  only  Cordelia  can. 

Paolo  Cenari,  that  diabolo,  is  in  Venice  now.  No  won- 
der your  friend,  Mr.  Barker,  was  anxious  for  him  to  por- 
tray you  on  his  vivacious  canvas.  But  look  out  for  him, 
Dorris.  He  is  a  wrecker  of  hearts  and  homes.  Last  win- 
ter, when  you  had  begun  your  social  tear  in  New  York, 
he  came  to  Boston  for  a  stay  of  a  month  or  two.  He 
is  most  delightful  socially — but!  He  adores  beautiful 
women  in  the  strictly  plural  sense.  A  few  years  after  I 
married  Theodore,  he  told  me  of  the  youthful  Paolo 

53 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Cenari  whom  he  had  encountered  in  a  weird  episode  in 
the  far  East.  His  capacity  for  experience  is  unlimited. 

Lady  Blanchard  is  at  the  Palazzo  Colbrizzi  in  the  Via 
Sante  and  will  remain  until  June  first,  at  which  time  she 
always  hears  the  call  of  the  London  season  and  cannot 
resist  its  temptation.  I  am  sending  you  a  letter  to  her 
which  I  will  ask  you  to  present  at  once,  as  I  may  be  de- 
layed in  getting  passage,  and  also  may  be  obliged  to  go 
to  Budapest.  It  might  give  you  pleasure  to  meet  her. 
Viola,  Lady  Blanchard,  is  a  widow,  and  rather  a  strange 
woman,  by  the  way,  with  what  you  would  call  a  wonder- 
ful history.  I  think  we  will  be  able  to  establish  a  wholly 
charming  circle  in  Venice,  and,  after  all,  am  not  so  discon- 
solate at  your  not  coming  back.  In  fact,  on  thinking  it 
over,  I  am  rather  keen  about  presenting  my  handsome 
protegee  to  some  clever  people,  and  ike  versa.  And  I 
have  missed  her  so  much,  from  her  bewitching  smile  to 
her  oddest  mood.  She  is  a  ball  of  fascination.  Well, 
Dorris,  it's  a  fortunate  thing  that  I  am  not  a  man.  I  fear 
I  would  have  been  quite  servile  in  my  devotion  for  you. 

Brookline  and  Boston  for  that  matter  are  dead  at  pres- 
ent. A  few  dinners  and  a  ball  now  and  then  have  been 
the  only  amusements  afforded  to  old  ladies  like  me.  I 
never  could  understand  why  the  Van  Lenneps  kept  their 
house  here.  Ah !  but  you  might  never  have  met  Harry 
had  it  not  been  for  your  visit  here  to  me !  The  deuce ! 
You  are  both  New  Yorkers.  Why  couldn't  you  have  met 
in  your  own  city  ? 

Well,  good-bye,  sweet !  A'vec  tin  baiser  tout  afectueux, 
until  I  can  give  you  one.  Devotedly, 

»*•      .1     r  /•  CORDELIA. 

May  the  first,  1906. 

54 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Dorris  leaned  back  on  the  red  cushions  in  her  luxurious 
gondola,  and  tore  her  letter  to  bits  which  she  scattered  to 
right  and  left.  Mr.  Barker  looked  toward  a  glass  factory 
on  their  left,  and  talked  about  Tuscan  vases.  Dorris  was 
silent. 

They  had  almost  reached  the  Schiavoni.  The  radiant 
spring  had  wooed  the  gardens  on  the  Giudecca  till  they 
burst  into  fragrant  bloom,  and  cast  their  soft  reflections 
in  the  clear  surface  of  the  water.  The  pink  pomegranate 
blossom  vied  with  the  delicate  rose,  while  the  marble  of 
the  cinque-cento  palaces  cried  out  in  their  gray  decay  to 
the  young  blooms.  They  laughed  back  that  Spring  was 
their  lover  and  that  he  was  the  personification  of  youth. 

San'  Salute  rose  majestically  out  of  the  waters,  and 
reflected  the  stately  grandeur  of  its  dome  far  into  the 
canal.  It  was  a  dream-day  in  the  show-city  of  Europe. 
Mr.  Barker  and  Dorris  purposed  going  to  the  Lido  to 
bathe  in  the  shallow  Adriatic.  They  had  been  left  to  get 
the  morning  mail  and  had  taken  advantage  of  a  little 
time  to  inspect  the  famous  Palazzo  Vendramin-Calergi, 
where  walks  the  ghost  of  Wagner. 

Dorris  opened  her  parasol  as  they  started  to  cross  the 
lagoon.  She  looked  at  Mr.  Barker. 

"Tell  me  about  Mrs.  Barker  and  the  two  youngsters, 
won't  you?"  she  asked  sweetly. 

"They  are  all  so  charming,"  he  answered,  "that  I  pre- 
fer to  let  you  learn  their  faults  and  weaknesses  after 
you  have  made  their  acquaintance.  Really  I  am  going  to 
persuade  you  to  make  us  a  long  visit  after  your  husband 
has  rejoined  you." 

"All  in  good  time,  Mr.  Barker,"  she  laughed.  "I  am 
curious  about  the  daughter.  Do  tell  me  her  name  at  least." 

55 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Geraldine;  are  you  satisfied?" 

"Clearly,  Mr.  Barker,  you  wish  to  tell  me  nothing  of 
your  friends  and  family." 

"You  will  be  telling  me  shortly  I  possess  that  much 
hackneyed  'mysterious  presence.'  "  Mr.  Barker  laughed. 

"Before  we  discuss  this  subject,  let  me  give  you  a 
delightful  bit  of  news,"  said  Dorris.  "Mrs.  Gunter  is 
coming  over  to  take  care  of  me.  Your  mission  is  ended." 

"Oh,  you  were  informed  of  that  on  the  scraps  of  paper 
you  threw  somewhat  tragically  into  the  canal?"  demanded 
Barker. 

"Don't  be  humorous.  Yes,  the  letter  was  from  Cor- 
delia. I  had  a  slight  disappointment  in  an  opinion  she 
expressed.  I  shouldn't  speak  so  of  her,  however.  We 
have  loved  each  other  so  much.  She  practically  brought 
me  up.  I  am  only  beginning  to  take  her  advice  now." 

"Any  news  about  your  husband?"  asked  Barker. 

"No.  That  is  to  say,  he  hadn't  arrived  when  Cordelia 
wrote.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Barker,  Signor  Cenari, — You  told 
me  in  Athens  you  wished  to  have  him  paint  my  portrait.  I 
know  he  is  in  Venice.  Am  I  never  to  meet  him?" 

Mr.  Barker  frowned. 

"Mrs.  Gunter  sent  me  a  letter  to  Lady  Blanchard.  It 
is  really  quite  a  marvel  that  I  didn't  tear  it  up,"  was  Dor- 
ris's  remark. 

"Suppose  you  wait  till  Mrs.  Gunter's  arrival  to  meet 
Lady  Blanchard?"  he  responded. 

"She  has  requested  me  to  present  it  at  once.  I  must 
obey,"  laughed  Dorris.  "I'm  going  to  tease  you.  I 
knew  you  didn't  want  me  to  meet  Lady  Viola  owing  to 
the  fact  that  this  Cenari  is  one  of  her  friends.  What  on 
earth  is  the  mystery  about  him?  Really,  if  you 

56 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

try  to  prevent  our  meeting,  I'll  promise  you  when  we  do, 
we  shall  pick  up  the  gauntlet  for  a  summer  flirtation." 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him,  Mr.  Bar- 
ker appeared  to  be  unable  to  grasp  her  humour.  Both 
remained  silent.  The  gondoliers  were  rowing  fast,  and 
they  had  left  the  city  far  behind.  In  the  distance  San 
Lazzaro  rose  from  the  crystal  lagoon,  a  study  in  red  and 
green,  the  red  brick  of  its  monastery  and  green  olive  and 
cypresses  of  its  garden.  The  silver  Lido  stretched  along 
the  horizon  in  a  straight  angle.  The  hotel  was  becoming 
more  distinct  at  each  stroke.  Another  gondola  approach- 
ing them,  and  the  occasional  puffing  of  the  Lido  steam- 
boat were  all  that  disturbed  the  sleeping  waters.  Mr. 
Barker  added  another  cushion  to  Dorris's  supply,  and  she 
resumed  a  comfortable  posture.  The  other  gondola  was 
so  near  that  the  occupants  became  distinguishable.  A  lady 
in  soft  brown  silk  was  holding  a  Pomeranian  spaniel.  Be- 
side her  was  a  man  whose  nationality  it  would  be  difficult  to 
guess.  As  the  boats  neared  one  another,  the  two  ladies  ex- 
changed lightning  glances,  but  before  Dorris  knew  Mr. 
Barker  had  bowed,  the  gondolas  had  sped  past  each  other. 
In  her  mind  was  the  impression  of  a  woman  slightly  faded, 
English  perhaps,  and  a  man  in  the  late  thirties. 

"Lady  Blanchard,"  remarked  Mr.  Barker.  "Have 
you  ever  seen  her  before?" 

"Indeed,  was  it?  And  the  other  occupant?  His  face 
is  strange." 

Dorris  lowered  her  head  and  raised  her  eyes  question- 
ingly  to  Mr.  Barker.  She  was  smiling  and  alluring,  her 
dainty  parasol  an  effective  background  for  the  white  face 
and  gold  hair. 

"Ah,  yes, — the  other.     That  was  Paolo  Cenari." 

57 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  VII. 

But  whether  I  came  in  love  or  hate, 
That  I  came  to  you  was  written  by  Fate. 

— India's  Love  Lyrics. 

There  was  a  hush  in  the  gold  room.  Lady  Blanchard 
turned  to  Signer  Pavolo:  "Yes,"  she  began,  "she  is  really 
lovely,  looks  like  a  painting  by  some  one  I  cannot  place. 
Her  beauty  is  quite  irresistible.  I  have  seen  her  only  once. 
She  had  a  letter  to  me  and  came  here  to  tea.  You  see,  I 
was  sure,  being  the  hostess  of  so  many  illustrious  people, 
that  I  needed  a  new  face,  a  new  beauty."  Lady  Blanchard 
bowed  and  laughed.  "To  be  sure,  she's  an  American,  but 
speaks  her  language  with  an  English  accent,  and  is  really 
a  mere  baby." 

"Her  husband?"  quizzed  Pavolo.  "Is  she  like  many 
of  her  countrywomen  with  a  mania  for  leaving  their  lords 
and  masters  in  stuffy  offices  across  the  seas?" 

"From  what  I  am  able  to  gather,  her  husband  re- 
turned to  see  some  business  deal  through,  owing  to  his 
father's  temporary  incapacity  brought  on  by  illness.  No, 
she  is  not  of  the  class  you  refer  to." 

"Lady  Viola,  your  young  woman  seems  to  have  the 
manners  of  a  jeune  fille  in  her  first  season,"  was  the  com- 
ment of  Signor  Cenari.  "Really,  no  one  else  in  the  social 
stratum  would  dare  to  appear  late  for  her  first  dinner 
at  the  Palazzo  Colbrizzi,  particularly  when  Lady  Blan- 
chard is  its  mistress.  Isn't  this  the  first  American  you 
have  favoured  since  the  rich  and  dull  Mrs.  Broadland  in- 
vaded London?" 

58 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Paolo,  you  are  incorrigible.  Sometimes  I  wonder 
that  we  endure  you.  What  do  you  say,  Contessa?"  And 
Lady  Blanchard  turned  to  the  sombre  Countess  Almanda 
who  looked  at  Signor  Cenari  and  smiling,  said, 

"Well,  Viola,  the  Venice  of  the  twentieth  century 
would  be  rather  dull  when  we  come  to  it  occasionally,  if 
Signor  Cenari  were  not  here  to  paint  our  faces  and  grace 
our  dinner-tables.  Now  he  knows  as  well  as  Conte  Al- 
manda that  I  do  not  flatter,  also" — 

There  was  another  hush  in  the  gold  room.  The  can- 
dles flared  near  the  gold  tapestries  as  the  butler  opened 
the  large  doors  at  the  head  of  the  marble  staircase. 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep !"  he  announced. 

All  eyes  were  centered  on  the  figure  that  paused  for 
an  instant  under  the  lintel.  Paolo  Cenari  held  his  breath. 
It  was  a  tall,  lithe  girl  he  saw,  formed  like  a  goddess, 
carrying  her  beautiful  head  high  on  her  long,  slender 
throat;  a  girl,  with  a  white  face  mounted  by  hair  of  sun- 
kissed  gold  and  with  eyes  the  colour  of  bluebells  dimmed 
by  water;  with  soft,  sensuous  lips  like  Rossetti's  "Pan- 
dora." "She  must  be  the  Goddess  of  Love,"  he  thought, 
"and  how  daring  in  her  winding  Greek  garment  of  deli- 
cate pink,  shimmering  with  masses  of  gold  roses.  How 
daring  to  come  gloveless  to  this  palace  with  not  even  a 
ring  to  enhance  the  beauty  of  her  long,  delicate  fingers." 

Of  what  was  she  dreaming  with  the  pink  rose  held 
gracefully  to  the  clinging  folds  of  her  gown?  She  came 
forward  with  an  easy  grace.  Cenari  thought  just  then 
that  a  man  might  well  give  his  soul  to  the  devil  to  see 
her  smile!  L'amordiDlo!  To  see  her  smile !  The  red 
lips,  the  gold  hair,  in  the  Colbrizzi  gold  room!  The 
knowledge  of  her  extraordinary  beauty  seemed  to  have 

59 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

given  her  that  poise  which  made  her  careless  of  effecfs, 
and  that  ease  which  the  great  lady  who  had  dwelt  in  this 
palace  five  centuries  before  might  have  possessed.  Lady 
Blanchard's  concession  after  years  of  entertaining,  to  the 
prevalent  fashion  of  presenting  guests,  for  the  first  time 
suggested  to  him  something  beyond  boredom. 

At  last,  he  was  actually  hearing  her  say,  somewhat 
stiffly,  indeed,  "Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  may  I  present  Signer 
Cenari?" 

"Signor  Cenari  of  artistic  fame?"  Dorris  queried. 

"Very  good  of  you  not  to  have  said  notoriety,"  laughed 
Cenari?" 
.  "Perhaps  I  used  the  wrong  word,  Signore." 

When  soon  after,  he  heard  Lady  Blanchard  say, 
"Signor  Pavolo,  will  you  take  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  in  to 
dinner?"  it  seemed  to  him  almost  that  she  had  screamed  it. 

Through  the  open  windows  across  the  canals  came  the 
stroke  of  eight  from  the  Giants'  clock  in  the  Piazza  di 
San  Marco. 

The  gold  room  was  redolent  of  delicate  rose  when  the 
little  party  passed  into  the  marble  rotunda,  and  then  into 
the  dining-room,  ornate  in  its  old  tapestries  and  older 
oak,  the  effect  accentuated  by  the  pink  shades  on  superbly 
wrought  candelabra,  said  to  have  been  the  work  of  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini. 

"Pink  is  an  artistic  shade,"  mused  Dorris,  as  she  took 
a  seat  between  Signor  Pavolo  and  Conte  Almanda. 

Covers  were  laid  for  twelve  this  May  night  in  Palazzo 
Colbrizzi.  At  Lady  Blanchard's  right,  Signor  Paolo 
Cenari  had  the  seat  of  honour.  Next  to  him  sat  the  di- 
vorced Lady  Cheltenham,  gossiping  with  Principe  Anda 
to  divert  attention  from  the  vivacious  Signora  Malvoni. 

60 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Malcolm  Forrest,  an  English  pupil  of  Cenari,  was  con- 
trasting the  differences  between  two  delicately  bred  Ital- 
ians, Signora  Malvoni  and  the  Contessa  Almanda.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Page  Wellington,  Mrs.  Henry  Van  Lennep, 
Conte  Almanda,  and  Signer  Pavolo  completed  the 
group. 

Cenari  inclined  his  head  toward  Lady  Viola. 

"I  suppose  we  must  speak  Eng — I  beg  pardon,  Amer- 
ican, in  deference  to  that  golden  child?" 

"Really,  Paolo,  these  Americans  sometimes  learn  to 
speak,  in  Europe.  Listen!" 

The  soft  vowels  of  the  language  of  music  were  being 
pronounced  by  the  dulcet  voice  of  Dorris  Van  Lennep. 
She  was  saying,  "e  troppa  bella"  and  he  strained  his  ears 
to  catch  her  accent.  How  he  envied  Conte  Almanda! 
Now  and  then  he  caught  a  word,  a  phrase,  but  he  could 
not  neglect  the  ladies  near  him,  and  soon  gave  up  the  effort 
to  listen  across  the  table.  With  his  clever  tongue  he  con- 
vinced Lady  Blanchard  that  she  was  the  loveliest  of  her 
sex;  and,  having  divined  the  weakness  of  Lady  Chelten- 
ham, paid  her  those  reverent  little  courtesies  due  to  women 
of  unsullied  repute.  Then  he  heard  the  voice  of  Dorris 
once  more,  now  in  conversation  with  Pavolo. 

"No — absolutely  none.  This  is  my  social  debut  in 
Venice.  From  what  I  had  read,  I  believed  the  day  of  its 
brilliance  and  beauty  in  that  way  had  gone.  I  verily  can 
imagine  I  am  at  a  conversazione  of  the  famous  Contessa 
Colbrizzi  with  this  Renaissance  background  and  the  deli- 
cate scent  of  the  garden  shrubs  which  one  inhales  in  that 
fragrant  breeze  from  the  windows.  It  is  a  wonderful 
night.  The  moon  is  young.  The  garden  must  be  lovely. 
How  often  I  have  read  of  the  Colbrizzi  Garden.  What 

61 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

is  its  charm?  Associations?  Do  not  such  names  as  Leo- 
pardi,  Faliero,  not  to  mention  Byron  and  the  Contessa 
Guiccioli,  linger  in  the  trees  and  flowers?" 

Signer  Pavolo,  amazed  at  this  young  woman's  complete 
mastery  of  his  language,  instead  of  answering  her  ques- 
tions, insisted  upon  knowing  how  she  had  acquired  it. 

"You  insist  upon  knowing,  Signor  Pavolo?"  laughed 
Dorris.  Supposing  I  decline  to  state?" 

"Then  I  would  urge  the  matter  to  a  point  where  you 
could  not  evade  me,"  he  said  playfully. 

"As  insistent  as  that?" 

"Yes,  really." 

"Well,  then,  to  please  you,  when  a  little  girl,  I  spent 
some  time  in  Bologna  and  Florence.  When  it  was  neces- 
sary for  my  father  to  leave  me,  I  was  placed  in  an  Italian 
family  he  had  known  for  years.  And  as  I  was  obliged 
to  study  my  French  through  Italian,  I  learned  very  rap- 
idly, and  I  have  kept  it  up  ever  since  more  or  less  in  the 
way  of  opera-going,  reading,  and  so  forth.  It  is  not  in 
the  least  remarkable,  really.  I  am  going  to  turn  to  Conte 
Almanda  for  relief  from  this  incessant  twaddle  about  my- 
self," and  Dorris  laughed  once  more. 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  Lady  Blanchard  called  across  the 
table,  "do  tell  me  about  our  friend,  Mr.  Barker.  I  have 
known  of  his  arrival  in  Venice  for  some  time.  Is  he  in 
seclusion?  He  hasn't  left  his  card,  and  he  knows  I  am 
always  at  Colbrizzi  in  the  spring." 

"Lady  Blanchard,  if  you  know  Mr.  Barker  well,  you 
must  surely  have  learned  by  this  time  not  to  expect  him 
to  do  the  usual  thing.  Who  knows?  He  may  call  to- 
morrow. He  is  stopping  at  Danieli's.  Shall  I  tell  him 
he  is  forgiven?" 

62 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Lady  Viola  is  only  one  who  protests,"  chimed  in 
Cenari.  "He  seems  to  have  gone  out  of  his  way  to  avoid 
me,  and  I  thought  him  a  staunch  friend.  It  is  shocking! 
But  even  so,  he  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  men  I 
know." 

"It  would  be  unkind,  then,  to  say  he  spoke  well  of  you," 
said  Dorris,  and  turned  to  Signor  Pavolo. 

"Why?"  demanded  Cenari,  but  received  no  response. 
He  caught  only  a  glimpse  of  a  lovely  profile  and  golden 
head,  above  the  soft  pink  shades  and  mass  of  roses  on  the 
table. 

Dorris  raised  her  chambertln  as  if  to  emphasize  the 
colour  of  her  lips,  which  Cenari  noted  smilingly.  Some- 
thing supercilious  in  his  glance  embarrassed  her.  She  felt 
she  disliked  that  name — that  man.  There  was  something 
in  his  face,  almost  handsome  though  it  was,  which  held 
her  without  the  power  to  admire.  But  she  was  thinking 
of  him,  and  of  no  one  else  at  this  table.  Why  should  she 
think  of  him  in  any  way?  She  let  her  glance  wander  to 
Principe  Anda. 

Conte  Almanda  asked  her  if  Signor  Cenari  was  to  be 
allowed  the  honour  of  painting  her  portrait.  She  nodded, 
and  Cenari  volunteered  that  it  was  to  be  executed  in  the 
gold  room,  for,  as  she  had  entered  it  to-night,  a  beautiful 
and  appropriate  poem  had  come  to  him;  and  added,  "The 
picture  will  have  to  be  entitled  'In  the  Gold  Room, — a 
Harmony.' ' 

Dorris  was  apparently  preoccupied,  and  Signor  Pavolo 
ingenuously  inquired  as  to  the  poem.  Thereupon  Paolo's 
voice  became  audible  only  to  the  few  about  him.  He 
raised  his  glass  and  paid  a  pretty  tribute  to  his  hostess. 

She  reminded  him  of  Pavolo's  request. 

63 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Ah,  yes,  the  poem."  He  looked  at  Dorris,  who  low- 
ered her  eyes  to  lift  them  to  Lady  Cheltenham.  Wounded 
by  the  memories  which  Cenari's  reference  had  awakened 
— for  the  verses  "In  the  Gold  Room,"  had  been  repeated 
often  by  her  father,  —  morbid  in  the  fear  that  Cenari 
might  repeat  it  all,  she  felt  that  the  woman  whose  eyes 
she  had  been  meeting  knew  her  embarrassment.  In  her 
imagination,  the  colour  was  mounting  to  her  cheeks,  re- 
ceding, then  mounting  again. 

"Her  ivory  hands  on  the  ivory  keys 

Strayed  in  a  fitful  fantasy, 
Like  the  silver  gleam  when  the  poplar  trees 

Rustle  their  pale  leaves  listlessly, 

Or  the  drifting  foam  of  a  restless  sea 
When  the  waves  show  their  teeth  in  the  flying  breeze. 

"Her  gold  hair  fell  on  the  wall  of  gold, 

Like  the  delicate  gossamer  tangles  spun 
On  the  burnished  disk  of  the  marigold, 
Or  the  sunflower  turning  to  meet  the  sun, 
When  the  gloom  of  the  jealous  night  is  done, 
And  the  spear  of  the  lily  is  aureoled." 

At  last  Dorris  breathed  freely.  After  all,  she  had  been 
absurd  to  imagine  that  he  would  repeat  the  rest.  It  was 
merely  a  piece  of  flattery,  hinted  by  Conte  Almanda. 

Later,  when  the  company  had  assembled  in  the  ball- 
room, Lady  Blanchard  crossed  to  where  Dorris  and 
Paolo  were  talking.  "Why  didn't  you  repeat  the  third 
stanza?"  she  asked,  pointedly. 

"But  why  pointedly?"  wondered  Dorris.  "I  presume 
she  was  innocent  of  the  contents  of  what  Cenari  had 
refrained  from  repeating.  Of  course,  she  didn't  know  I 
knew  it  by  heart." 

"Did  Mr.  Barker  ever  speak  to  you  of  Rossetti?" 
asked  Cenari,  abruptly.  "They  were  friends,  you  know. 

64 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

I  am  sure  he  would  have  thought  of  a  more  appropriate 
title  for  a  picture  of  you  than  'A  Harmony.'  ' 

Dorris  knew  she  showed  a  deplorable  want  of  tact  to 
express  relief  by  a  look,  and  tried  to  meet  the  neutral 
gaze  of  Cenari  with  a  degree  of  frankness. 

"How  clever  she  is,"  he  was  thinking,  divining  that  she 
knew  the  stanza : 

"And  her  sweet  red  lips  on  these  lips  of  mine 
Burned  like  the  ruby  fire,  set 

In  a  swinging  lamp  of  a  crimson  shrine, 
Or  the  bleeding  wounds  of  the  pomegranate, 
Or  the  heart  of  the  lotus  drenched  and  wet 

With  the  spilt-out  blood  of  the  rose-red  wine." 

After  the  guests  had  heard  Lady  Viola  sing,  they  dis- 
persed about  the  house  and  garden.  A  few  remained  in 
the  ballroom  to  listen  or  dance  to  the  music  of  the  red- 
coated  musicians. 

Dorris  Van  Lennep  waltzed  "Quand  I' amour  meurt" 
with  Paolo  Cenari.  The  music  ceased  suddenly  as  they 
found  themselves  at  the  entrance  to  the  rotunda.  Fol- 
lowing little  groups,  they  walked  slowly  down  the  marble 
staircase  into  the  court,  and  through  the  open  gateway 
into  the  garden.  The  night  air  came  laden  with  the 
scent  of  peach-blossoms.  Roses  were  clambering  wildly 
over  the  tottering  walls  of  this  garden,  where  the  foot- 
prints of  centuries,  departed  doge  and  lover,  had  left 
their  subtle  imprints  in  the  yielding  earth.  The  silver- 
blue  of  the  young  May  moon  outlined  the  clear  perfec- 
tion of  Dorris's  face,  as  she  stared  into  the  Renaissance 
fountain. 

"Strange,  when  time  adds  tragedy  to  beauty  it  heightens 
the  effect,"  she  murmured. 

65 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

The  passing  of  a  gondola  in  the  bordering  canal  was 
suggested  by  a  soft  paddle  in  the  water  and  the  gradual 
lessening  of  it. 

"The  whole  scene" — it  was  Cenari's  voice — "the  sky, 
the  air,  the  shadowy  hands  that  seem  to  linger  still  over 
the  carving  on  that  fountain,  that  drifting  gondola — tell 
me  one  thing" — 

She  waited. 

"That  some  day,  some  time,"  he  went  on  very  slowly, 
"somewhere,  I  may  give  you  that  third  stanza." 

Dorris  laughingly  tripped  her  way  back  into  the  court. 

"'Some  day,  some  time,  somewhere!'"  she  repeated. 
"That's  not  worthy  of  you.  It's  too  like  a  college  boy 
trying  to  make  love." 


66 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  us  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

— Thomas  Campbell. 

For  a  time  after  the  dinner  at  the  Palazzo  Colbrizzi, 
Dorris  saw  nothing  of  her  hostess  or  any  of  the  guests. 
She  felt  the  experience  as  a  dream  in  which  her  fancy 
quarreled  with  the  baffling  smile  of  Lady  Cheltenham, 
and  connected  it  in  some  way  with  the  tragic  suggestions 
of  the  garden.  She  had  thought  to  hear  in  some  way  of 
Cenari.  And  yet  why  should  any  word  of  or  from  him 
mean  anything  to  her? 

She  missed  the  genial  moods  and  friendly  talks,  per- 
haps, too,  the  good  advice,  of  Mr.  Barker,  who  had  just 
left  for  England.  It  was  good  of  him  to  care  about  exact- 
ing a  promise  that  they  should  meet  again,  and  she  really 
looked  forward  to  it.  His  receptive  enthusiasm  for  Ital- 
ian lore  reminded  her  of  her  father.  She  wondered 
whether  if  he  had  lived  she  would  think  so  insistently 
about  renewing  or  improving  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Blahchard's  friends.  It  was  strange  that  she  did  not  meet 
any  of  them  anywhere.  They  could  not  be  living  in  dire 
seclusion,  yet  in  drifting  up  and  down,  in  and  among  the 
canals,  all  the  faces  she  saw  were  those  of  stranger  tour- 
ists. What  could  have  become  of  the  well-dressed  people 
at  the  Colbrizzi?  Danieli's  sheltered  none  of  them.  It 
was  a  bore  to  go  about  dining  so  frequently  with  the 
Norths,  meeting  occasional  new  arrivals,  usually  friends 
of  theirs,  and  now  and  then  stumbling  upon  a  schoolmate 
of  her  own,  to  whom  she  bowed  stiffly  in  passing. 

67 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Why  should  she  writhe  under  the  fact  that  Cenari 
had  held  her  in  slight  respect  by  reciting  verses  whose 
application  he  had  made  so  personal,  while  at  the  same 
time  she  resented  his  not  making  an  effort  to  continue  her 
acquaintance?  And  why  should  she  feel  an  inconsistent 
throb  of  pride  that  he  had  selected  her  out  of  all  the 
others  to  compliment  so  unequivocally  at  a  formal  dinner, 
when  all  the  time  he  carried  that  supercilious  look  straight 
over  the  roses  into  her  eyes  ?  Men  did  not  take  such  liber- 
ties with  Roman  princesses,  and  that  he  should  have  dared, 
that  he  should  have  dared! 

After  all,  she  would  end  this  mental  conflict  by  forget- 
ting Cenari,  by  putting  the  whole  thing  out  of  her  mind. 

She  spent  one  warm  Wednesday  morning  roaming  with 
Grace  North  over  the  shops  on  the  Piazza,  and  on  their 
way  back  to  Danieli's  suddenly  decided  that  day  to  pay 
her  call  at  the  Colbrizzi. 

"I  can't  delay  much  longer,"  she  yawned  sleepily  to  her 
companion,  and  Grace  turned  in  astonishment. 

"Gracious!  Haven't  you  gone  there  yet?  If  I  had 
been  entertained  at  a  Venetian  palace,  I'd  have  made  my 
call  next  day." 

Dorris  felt  uncomfortable.  The  Norths  had  really 
been  good  to  her,  but  was  that  any  reason  why  she  should 
continually  smart  under  their  impertinence?  This  was  not 
the  first  intimation  she  had  had  that  Grace,  and  her 
mother,  too,  for  that  matter,  coveted  a  card  to  the  Col- 
brizzi. 

"Well,  Grace,  why  don't  you  ask  me  to  take  you  with 
me,  and  be  done  with  it?"  she  said  petulantly. 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  they  reached  their  sit- 
ting-room overlooking  the  Schiavoni  and  Giudecca,  where 

68 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Grace  seemed  to  put  everything  out  of  her  mind  save  the 
question  of  luncheon.  While  she  summoned  a  waiter, 
Dorris  ran  into  her  room  to  replace  street  gown  with 
kimono. 

On  her  way  back  she  knocked  at  Mrs.  North's  door 
and  found  her  and  Grace  dressing. 

"While  we  were  out,  Dorris,"  cried  Grace,  "mother 
says  a  stunning  page  brought  you  a  note,  and  she  saw 
from  the  window  a  handsome  gondola  in  which  he  was 
rowed  away  toward  the  Grand  Canal.  Such  gondoliers, 
too!  Sh,  sh,  sh!  It  must  be  from  Lady  Blanchard." 

"You'll  find  the  note  on  the  sitting-room  table  under 
'The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne,'  "  interrupted  Mrs. 
North.  I  was  very  particular  to  put  it  where  you 
could  find  it  at  once." 

Dorris  closed  the  door  softly.  After  all,  Lady  Blan- 
chard had  not  utterly  forgotten  her,  though  this  could 
hardly  be  a  second  invitation.  She  lifted  the  novel  and 
found  the  large  blue  ragged-edged  envelope. 

"Lady  Viola  writes  a  strange  hand,"  she  reflected,  tear- 
ing open  the  flap  and  reading: — 

WEDNESDAY  MORNING, 
PALAZZO  GIANELLI,  VIA  CAMBERING. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Fan  Lennep, 

If  you  are  not  engaged  for  the  afternoon  and  have 
nothing  pleasanter  in  prospect,  would  you  be  good  enough 
to  come  to  my  garden  with  Lady  Blanchard  for  tea  ?  She 
will  call  for  you  at  four,  and  should  she  be  so  fortunate 
as  to  find  you  in,  will  try  to  persuade  you  to  come. 

Yours. 

PAOLO  CENARI. 

69 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Dorris  read  and  re-read  the  note,  then  tore  it  into  bits 
which  she  threw  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  She  walked 
over  to  the  long  mirror,  once  the  property  of  Doge  Dan- 
dolo,  and  regretted  that  she  looked  so  tired.  She  dropped 
down  upon  the  couch  and  lighted  a  cigarette.  Her  expres- 
sion did  not  change  until  she  heard  Grace  at  the  door; 
then  she  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"I'm  off  this  afternoon,"  she  said  blithely,  "with  Lady 
Blanchard,  for  tea  in  a  friend's  garden.  Wouldn't  mind 
taking  you  if  I  could,  you  know,  but  you  really  have  to — 
Oh,  never  mind!  You  are  really  looking  lovely.  Affect 
white  more,  Grace;  you  are  quite  charming  in  it." 

"Goodness!  The  ceiling  will  fall  with  Dorris  Van 
Lennep  giving  compliments.  Give  me  a  cigarette." 

"Little  unmarried  American  girls  shouldn't  smoke," 
laughed  Dorris,  lighting  one  for  her,  "but  it's  almost  as 
becoming  as  the  white  linen.  I  must  send  to  Doucet  for 
one  exactly  like  it." 

"Well,  anyway,  Lady  Blanchard's  letter  must  have 
done  you  lots  of  good.  By  the  way,  Dorris,  wouldn't  you 
like  to  go  to  London  for  the  tail-end  of  the  season  ?" 

"No,  dear,  no,  no!  I'm  going  to  stay  right  here. 
Don't  let  it  worry  you,  though,  for  Cordelia  will  be  here 
soon.  Don't  let  me  interfere  with  your  plans.  What's 
the  matter  with  Venice,  anyway?  Not  enough  suitors 
here,  eh?  Ah,  I  know.  Jack  Railing!  He  is  going  to 
be  in  London?"  And  Dorris  playfully  took  Grace's  face 
in  her  hands.  "Come  now,  Grace,  hand  over  your  cigar- 
ette, and  tell  me  why  you  don't  think  of  marrying." 

"Well,  I  like  that!  We  all  stand  anything  from  you. 
Marry?  How  ridiculous.  I — Oh,  bother.  I'll  begin 
to  think  of  that  in  two  years  from  now." 

70 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"But  have  you  never  been  crazy  about  any  one,  Grace?" 

"Don't  be  absurd?  What  shall  we  eat?  That  waiter 
should  be  here.  What  do  you  say?" 

"Ring  the  bell,  and  we'll  think  about  it  later." 

As  Grace  walked  across  the  room,  a  soft  knock  at  the 
door  made  Dorris  start.  It  was  twice  repeated,  and  then 
the  door  slowly  opened.  Grace  saw  a  handsome  woman 
in  a  traveling  suit,  bubbling  over  with  joy,  and  then  Dorris 
and  the  new-comer  were  in  each  other's  arms. 

"Cordelia,  Cordelia,  dear,  dear  Cordelia!"  she  almost 
sobbed  her  joy.  "How  good  of  you!  How  glad  I  am 
to  see  you.  And  you  are  looking  so  well,  Cordelia." 

Mrs.  Gunter  for  her  part  clung  to  the  girl  quite  speech- 
less with  relief  and  pleasure.  She  gazed  into  her  eyes, 
and  murmured: — 

"You  beautiful  creature!  You  grow  prettier  every 
day!" 

(Grace,  meantime,  had  been  considerate  enough  to 
leave  them  alone.) 

"Let  me  take  your  things  off,  Cordy,  sweet.  Sit  down 
and  rest,  there,  so — and  get  that  beastly  hat  off  as  soon 
as  ever  you  can.  When  did  you  come?  How  long  have 
you  been  here?  Oh,  I'm  just  crazy  to  know  everything 
at  once.  Cordy,  oh,  it's  too  good  to  have  you  again,  dear, 
dear  Cordy!" 

"Child,  we  are  acting  like  simpletons.  I  got  in  two 
hours  late,  so  dusty  and  tired;  stopped  in  Verona  yester- 
day, and  missed  my  afternoon  train,  so  I  had  to  spend 
the  night  there.  I  got  the  first  train  this  morning  and 
came  down  with  a  charming  boy  I  had  not  seen  for  years. 
It  is  good  to  be  in  d'Anmmzio's  City  Beautiful  again, 
What  a  day!  Come  to  the  window,  Dorris.  What  a 

71 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

delightful  balcony  I  Almost  like  the  one  off  my  room  in 
the  Spechio-Torni."  Dorris  turned  quickly  away.  "For- 
give me,  child.  I  forgot.  I  did  not  mean  to  bring  up 
old  memories.  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  Ah,  Dorris,  you 
are  such  a  naughty  girl." 

"You  have  talked  with  Harry?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  only,  though. 
He  said  he  was  writing  two  or  three  times  a  week,  but 
gave  me  a  letter  to  deliver  in  person.  It's  in  my  gold 
bag." 

"What  about  your  room,  Cordelia?" 

"Godfrey  de  Bouillon !  Did  you  think  I'd  get  a  room 
before  I  got  here?"  Cordelia  kissed  the  girl's  forehead. 

"Oh,  then  you'll  share  mine.  It's  big  enough  in  all 
conscience  with  two  old-fashioned  bedsteads  elaborately 
curtained.  Don't  refuse,  Cordy,  please.  Come  right 
along  now,  and  get  your  dress  changed  and  have  a  rest. 
I  think  I'd  better  lock  you  in,  so  you  will  just  have  to  keep 
quiet  and  get  freshened  up  after  the  trip.  Not  a  word 
out  of  your  head.  I'll  send  for  luncheon  and  feed  you 
with  my  own  hands.  Then  you  are  to  sleep  until  three, 
and  I  will  wake  you  up  in  time  to  go  out  with  Lady  Viola 
and  me.  You  see  I  am  full  of  mysteries.  Come  this  way. 
Rather  large  sitting-room,  this,  isn't  it?" 

"What  about  Lady  Blanchard?" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  not  to  say  another  word?  I  will  tap 
you  like  a  Yale  man.  Go  to  your  room;  do  you  hear? 
Now,  please,  Cordelia,  mind,  please.  We  will  dine  up 
here,  and  have  the  whole  evening  to  gossip  in.  Keep 
right  on  disrobing.  I'm  sending  down  for  luncheon." 

"But  the  people  you  are  staying  with — the  Norths?" 

"In  there."    Dorris  pointed  to  their  rooms. 

72 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Cordelia  laughed,  and  obeyed  her  guidance. 

Later  in  the  day,  after  a  delay  in  dressing,  owing  to  a 
difficulty  about  Mrs.  Gunter's  trunks,  the  two  friends 
found  themselves  fittingly  attired  and  in  readiness  for 
Lady  Blanchard's  appearance  at  four.  That  lady  came 
punctually,  two  of  her  spaniels  enjoying  the  red  plush 
cushions  on  either  side  of  the  seat  in  the  gondola. 

She  did  not  seem  at  all  surprised  to  see  Mrs.  Gunter 
in  the  doorway,  and  smilingly  motioned  her  into  the  boat. 
The  three  ladies  were  comfortably  seated  and  under  the 
bridge,  when  Lady  Blanchard  remarked: — 

"Paolo  will  be  delighted  to  see  you  again,  Cordelia. 
He  has  told  me  so  much  about  you.  He  insists  you  are 
different  to  other  Americans." 

Mrs.  Gunter  lifted  one  of  the  spaniels  into  her  lap  and 
looked  at  Dorris.  Why  should  the  girl  not  have  told  her 
that  they  were  going  to  Paolo's  garden  ?  It  hurt  her  that 
she  should  have  made  a  mystery  of  it.  It  looked  as  if 
Dorris  attached  an  importance  to  the  circumstance  which 
she  did  not  attach  to  ordinary  goings  and  comings  of 
which  she  was  so  frank  to  speak. 

Cenari  and  Malcolm  Forrest  occupied  a  palace  built 
round  a  beautiful  garden  which  bordered  on  the  Giudecca, 
and  it  was  to  the  garden  entrance  that  Lady  Blanchard 
had  ordered  her  gondoliers. 

They  found  the  two  artists  in  the  garden  with  Signer 
Pavolo. 

"Mrs.  Gunter,  quelle  bonne  chance!  How  good  of 
you  to  come,"  was  Cenari's  greeting,  "and  I  see  you  have 
not  forgotten  your  piece  de  resistance,  your  amethysts. 
Come  to  a  secluded  spot  under  the  olives,  and  tell  me  all 
about  it."  And  Signor  Cenari  and  Mrs.  Gunter  left  Mr. 

73 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Forrest  and  Signer  Pavolo  to  entertain  Lady  Blanchard 
and  Mrs.  Van  Lennep. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  her  life,  the  demon  of  jealousy 
shot  up  its  head  and  nodded  at  Dorris.  Of  course,  it  was 
because  she  disliked  Cenari  that  she  felt  anything  at  all. 
But  if  he  and  Cordelia  had  been  old  friends,  if  they  had 
had  a  fast  and  furious  flirtation,  that  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  be  left  out  in  the  cold,  why  they  should  uncere- 
moniously turn  their  backs  upon  her  and  walk  off  alone. 
They  would  find  they  had  to  reckon  with  Dorris  Bedford. 
"Fight,  Dorris,"  some  fierce  instinct  cried,  "fight  and 
prove  your  claim.  Why,  you're  twenty  years  younger 
than  Cordelia — twenty  whole  years!  And  this  woman 
was  your  mother's  friend.  How  perfectly  ridiculous!" 

Meantime  Cordelia  was  saying  to  Cenari,  banteringly: 

"Genius,  philanderer,  heartbreaker,  confess.  Have  you 
been  trying  your  arts  on  my  little  girl?" 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Gunter,  you  know  that  my  laws  of 
the  game  render  my  play  such  that  I  do  not  include  a 
sweet  and  innocent  child.  But  you  had  a  premonition?" 

"Well,  psychic  phenomena  aren't  exactly  in  my  line, 
Signor  Cenari.  Nevertheless,  I  was  so  disturbed  over 
'that  sweet  and  innocent  child'  that  I  left  Boston  at  a  very 
inconvenient  time.  And  I  am  speaking  quite  seriously." 

"Indeed,  well — I  am  going  to  paint  her.  She's  worth 
it.  Quite  extraordinary  on  canvas,  and  not  less  so  because 
the  canvas  may  happen  to  be  mine.  But  yet,  I  would  have 
your  permission,  chaperon.  She's  going  with  me  for  a 
tour  of  inspection  to-morrow." 

"Horrors!" 

"Am  I  more  than  one  horror,  then?"  he  laughed,  but 
with  constraint,  and  suggested  that  they  rejoin  the  others. 

74 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Gunter  stood  still  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"Signer  Cenari,"  she  said  softly,  "don't  take  my  hand 
unless  you  can  assure  me  that  your  game  is  fair.  A  girl 
of  nineteen  holds  no  trumps." 

He  laughed  over  their  hearty  handshake. 

"Not  take  your  hand,  Lady  Christian,  indeed?  And 
not  assure  you?  Why,  of  course,  I  assure  you." 

It  was  Dorris  who  poured  tea,  after  which  Cenari 
pointed  out  the  chief  places  of  interest  in  the  garden.  He 
asked  if  he  might  show  her  his  studio,  and  they  stepped 
into  the  court  and  ascended  an  oak  staircase  at  the  rear. 

Then  Dorris  found  herself  in  the  most  picturesque 
room  she  had  ever  seen.  Spacious  and  oriental,  it  looked 
out  on  the  garden  of  the  Giudecca.  Old  tapestries  cov- 
ered the  walls,  and  the  ceiling  represented  Mount  Parnas- 
sus in  fresco  painted  by  Tiepolo.  Skins  of  jungle  mon- 
archs,  scimitars,  carved  blades,  the  antlers  of  the  mountain 
antelope,  and  the  tusks  of  the  Indian  elephant  suggested 
to  her  the  pilgrimage  of  Lalla  Rookh.  The  mystery  of 
the  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan  was  emphasized  by  mas- 
sive temple  censers  and  the  sumptuous  velvet  of  the 
hangings. 

On  an  easel  near  the  windows  was  the  half  finished 
portrait  of  the  ever-youthful  Principessa  Anda,  while  a 
Turkish  screen  hid  another  canvas. 

"Signer  Cenari,  what  do  the  Venetians  or  rather  those 
of  your  set  who  come  here  occasionally,  do  with  them- 
selves all  day?"  asked  Dorris.  "One  rarely  sees  your 
faces." 

"Come  this  way,"  was  Cenari's  reply.  He  walked  to 
the  other  end  of  the  studio  and  opened  a  small  door. 

75 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Dorris  peeped  in.  It  was  a  very  small  room,  draped  in 
cloth  of  gold. 

"What?  You  have  copied  the  gold  room!"  she  ex- 
claimed, a  rush  of  contending  forces  momentarily  stupefy- 
ing her  as  she  studied  his  face. 

"I  am  going  to  paint  you  here,"  he  breathed. 

The  childishness  of  this  studied  compliment  suddenly  ap- 
pealed to  the  girl's  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  she  cried, — 

"What  a  lot  of  time  and  thought  you  have  wasted — on 
a  poem !  Dear  me,  you  must  have  done  a  lot  of  walking 
to  get  that  gold  tint." 

Without  speaking,  the  painter  stepped  backward  to 
allow  her  to  precede  him  into  the  studio,  and  they  crossed 
the  room  together  in  silence.  When  abruptly  before  the 
hidden  easel,  Cenari  with  a  theatrical  gesture,  flung  down 
the  exquisitely  embroidered  Turkish  screen  showing  an 
incomplete  sketch. 

Dorris  was  surprised  into  silence  a  moment,  then  she 
said, 

"But  suppose  I  left  Venice  so  you  couldn't  finish  it?" 

"But  you  won't  do  that,"  he  said. 

"All  the  same,"  airily,  "I  don't  know  why  you  have 
given  me  that  absurd  pose,  with  my  elbow  on  my  knee  like 
that  and  my  chin  in  my  right  hand.  I  look  as  if  I  wore 
'the  smile  that  won't  come  off,'  don't  you  know?" 

He  smiled. 

As  they  were  on  their  way  out,  Cenari  paused  before  the 
door  of  the  impromptu  gold  room,  which  was  really  an  in- 
genious copy  of  that  in  the  Palazzo  Colbrizzi,  and 
closed  it. 

"Some  day,  we  will  have  a  tableau  on  that  poem  in 
there,"  he  said. 

76 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  IX 

One  fatal  remembrance — one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes — 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  has  no  balm — and  affliction  no  sting. 

— Tom  Moore. 

"Thank  God,  Dorris,"  said  Cordelia  that  evening  after 
having  dined  with  the  Norths,  "we  have  at  last  got  rid 
of  those  deadly  people.  Dorris,  how  could  you  have  stood 
them?" 

"Nonentities  don't  worry  me  as  much  as  they  do  you, 
Cordy,"  smiled  Dorris.  "Pray  unfasten  my  dress;  it's  too 
tight  anyway." 

"Miss  North  is  like  a  thousand  other  girls.  If  you  are 
continually  in  the  society  of  such  people,  you  are  gradually 
pulled  down  to  their  level.  It  is  inevitable." 

"Then  I  have  deteriorated?  Is  that  what  you  mean, 
Cordy?" 

Dorris  loosened  her  hair  till  its  tangled  gold  fell  over 
her  delicate  shoulders.  Cordelia  watched  her  undress,  ad- 
miring the  curves  of  the  arm  and  throat.  At  last  the 
golden  girl  was  in  her  lacey  night-dress  sitting  at  Cor- 
delia's feet,  her  head  in  her  dear  friend's  lap.  The  woman 
in  the  chair  passed  her  fingers  through  the  gold  hair. 

"  'Lazy,  laughing,  languid  Jenny,'  "  she  murmured. 
"You  are  a  Rossetti  girl,  Dorris. 

"'Oh,  Jenny,  as  I  watch  you  there 
For  all  your  wealth  of  loosened  hair — ' " 

77 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"How  dear  you  are,  Cordelia.  It  is  almost  as  if  you 
were  my  mother.  I  love  the  hours  with  you,  to  feel 
my  head  against  your  knee  and  the  perfect  peace,  Cordy. 
Sometimes,  I  have  missed  that  mother  I  never  knew.  I 
have  longed  for  her,  now  and  then,  until  it  was  unbear- 
able. During  my  honeymoon,  I  wanted  her  most,  to  go 
back  to.  I  had  never  thought  so  much  about  her  until 
then.  It  came  to  me  that  everything  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent if  she  could  have  pressed  my  hand  or  kissed  my 
hair.  Was  she  lovely,  Cordy?  Tell  me." 

The  warm  perfume  of  the  night  came  in  through  the 
window.  The  singing  in  the  boats  reached  them  from 
San'  Salute,  from  the  Grand  Canal,  from  the  Lagoon 
making  a  soft  harmony.  Dorris  closed  her  eyes  as  her 
hand  sought  Cordelia's. 

"Child,  I  have  told  you  little  or  nothing  of  that  sweet 
mother  whom  I  loved,"  answered  Cordelia.  "I  will  let 
you  know  her  whole  history,  and  the  history  of  her  mother 
as  well.  You  have  been  too  young  to  understand.  It 
might  have  hurt  you;  but  now  that  you  are  a  married 
woman,  you  must  know.  Dorry,  you  thought  me  hard 
when  I  tried  to  prevent  your  marriage ;  you  couldn't  know 
why,  of  course.  But  you  should  have  trusted  Cordelia." 

"Cordy,  don't  speak  of  that.  I  have  been  a  girl  again 
for  a  little  while.  Don't  make  me  think  of  that  nightmare. 
It  spoiled  Naples  for  me,  it  spoiled  Greece." 

"Sh!  girlie,  listen  intently.  Your  mother,  Dorris  Good- 
wood, I  met  at  school  in  France,  as  you  know.  She  was 
an  odd  child,  but  we  took  a  violent  fancy  to  each  other. 
We  were  disliked  by  the  others,  but  always  true  to  each 
other.  It  all  began  when  Dorris  was  reprimanded  for 
some  trivial  wrong-doing.  I  took  her  part,  and  from  that 

78 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

day,  we  were  bosom  friends.  She  was  a  little  older  than 
I,  and  much  more  than  a  little  more  brilliant.  Not  quite 
as  pretty  as  you,  I  think,  but  very  lovely  in  my  eyes. 

"During  vacations,  we  would  travel  with  her  family,  or 
Dorry  would  come  to  my  father's  place  in  England.  We 
had  a  wonderful  childhood.  The  celebrities  we  met  en- 
livened our  natural  interest  in  the  artistic  world,  and  we 
became  bookworms.  When  Dorris  was  fifteen  we  were 
sent  to  Signora  Baltini's  finishing  school  in  Florence,  and 
there  we  stayed  for  two  years.  Those  days  in  that  beau- 
tiful city  make  up  the  recollections  I  cherish  most.  We 
were  obliged  to  remain  through  the  summer  of  our  first 
school  year,  owing  to  some  family  troubles  of  which  we 
were  ignorant.  Later  came  the  news  of  Dorry's  mother's 
death,  which  clouded  our  second  year,  for  her  grief  was 
mine  also.  Oh !  I  shall  never  forget  my  efforts  to  comfort 
her.  Sometimes  I  fancied  she  had  almost  forgotten  it, 
on  our  rambles  to  Fiesole,  or  prayers  in  the  Annunziata." 

"Poor  children,"  whispered  Dorris. 

"At  last  we  read  together  Hegel's  'Philosophy  of  His- 
tory,' and  decided  to  adopt  a  philosophy  of  our  own.  We 
intended  fathoming  the  art  of  living.  As  I  have  said  many 
times,  this  has  been  the  only  talent  I  possess.  Well,  dear, 
I  started  to  acquire  it  with  Dorris  Goodwood,  in  the  flow- 
ered gardens  and  cypress  walks  of  la  bella  Firenze. 

"It  was  with  heartbreaks,  almost,  that  we  left  th<? 
school,  for  we  were  sure  it  had  been  different  from  others. 
Yet  we  obeyed  instructions  and  sailed  for  our  'ain  countree' 
one  fine  June  day.  The  following  winter  we  made  our 
debuts  in  Boston,  where  Dorris  proved  to  be  the  season's 
beauty.  Before  Lent  dispelled  our  many  festivities,  Dorry 
had  fallen  in  love  with  that  darling,  Fitzgerald  Bedford, 

79 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

who  was  visiting  the  Ashbys,  and  I  had  met  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  being,  Theodore  Gunter. 

"The  night  before  Dorry's  marriage,  she  was  told  of 
her  mother's  death  tragedy.  She  had  loved  my  father,  it 
seems,  and  had  fought  against  it  with  great  courage.  The 
details  I  have  never  fully  known.  At  her  own  request, 
she  was  taken  to  Egypt  by  her  husband,  where  she  took  a 
malignant  fever  and  died.  This  thrust  a  gloom  over 
Dorry's  honeymoon,  for  it  seems,  Dorris,  that  all  your 
family  are  destined  to  have  unhappy  wedding  journeys, 
but  I  must  not  dwell  on  that.  I  believe  I  was  saying  a 
gloom  had  been  cast  over  Dorry's  honeymoon.  Yes,  but 
she  came  to  your  father's  house  a  stately  queen. 

"My  own  wedding  came,  and  shortly  after  it  a  visit  to 
your  mother  and  father.  I  have  never,  never  seen  such 
a  home !  It  was  a  vision  of  Arcady !  We  lived  in  a  house 
of  love,  a  menage  a  quatre,  and  were  all  ideally  happy. 
Fancy,  Dorris,  dear,  not  only  two  lovers,  but  four !  How 
I  love  to  recall  those  days.  Now  that  time  has  mellowed 
them,  it  seems, — it  seems  I  see  even  their  perfection 
through  rose-coloured  windows,  if  such  a  thing  can  be! 
I  shall  never  forget  our  nights  at  the  opera,  and  the  little 
supper  that  awaited  us  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  house,  or  those 
we  spent  around  the  library  hearth,  while  Fitzgerald  read 
our  favourites  to  us,  or  we  all  talked  astronomy  or 
romance.  They  were  dream-days,  like  the  days  on  the 
Florentine  hill. 

"Dorry  and  I  looked  at  the  brides  around  us  and 
laughed.  'We  are  both  made  for  Paradise,'  was  her  pet 
saying.  Theodore  and  I  had  to  leave  them  at  last,  and  to 
Brookline  we  went.  I  wrote  to  Dorry  three  times  a  week. 
When  the  time  came  to  think  of  you  we  waited  anxiously, 

80 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

oppressed  by  many  unformed  fears.  The  little  Dorris 
arrived,  a  fat  pink  baby,  and  Dorry  lost  interest  in  every- 
thing in  the  world,  even  partially  in  her  lover-husband,  it 
seemed,  for  her  child.  She  was  completely  happy.  It  was 
beautiful  to  know  what  a  lovely  mother  my  friend  of 
happy  school-days  had  become.  A  year  after  your  birth 
she  was  far  prettier  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  Not 
quite  as  tall  as  you,  she  possessed  your  figure.  She  was  of 
a  more  vivacious  type,  all  colour,  yet  not  quite  so  perfect 
as  her  little  Dorry. 

"All  went  smoothly  until  the  summer  after  your  birth. 
Your  father  took  a  house  at  Saratoga  Springs,  where  we 
five  went  in  June.  Dorry  began  to  go  out  a  good  deal 
again,  and  receive  her  meed  of  adulation.  Little  by  little 
we  all  noticed  a  change  in  her.  She  was  frequently  petu- 
lant, and  subject  to  moods  and  fancies  we  had  never  known 
in  her  before.  Fitzgerald  paid  no  attention  to  them,  until 
they  became  worse  and  Dorry  said  things  that  hurt  him  so, 
he  would  leave  the  room  with  wet  eyes." 

A  faint  shudder  crept  over  Dorris. 

"I  tried  to  get  Dorry's  confidence.  My  efforts  were  quite 
futile,  however,  for  even  to  me  who  had  known  her  heart's 
secrets,  she  had  suddenly  become  as  inscrutable  as  a  sphinx. 

"Among  the  very  frequent  visitors  at  her  summer  house 
were,  or  was,  I  mean,  an  Englishman." 

Cordelia  frowned. 

"He  called  three  or  four  times  a  week,  and  rode  with 
us  often.  We  guessed  he  admired  Dorry  a  great  deal, 
that  was  all.  Fitzgerald  had  never  been  jealous  of  her, 
and  always  trusted  his  wife.  Why  this  very  agreeable 
Englishman  couldn't  have  stayed  in  his  own  country,  is 
too  deep  for  me." 

81 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Cordy,  don't  tell  me  my  mother — oh !  I  feared  it,  God 
knows  I  feared  it !  Harry  put  it  into  my  mind  by  a  vulgar 
remark.  You  had  better  not  have  told  me,  Cordelia,  I'd 
rather  never  have  known!" 

The  big  tears  rolled  down  Dorris's  cheek. 

"Since  I  have  begun  this  terrible  story,  Dorris,  dear,  let 
me  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  know.  Then  we  will  forget 
it,  will  we  not?" 

Dorris  for  answer  pressed  her  hand. 

"Towards  the  middle  of  October,  we  were  to  have  left- 
Saratoga.  Dorry  had  seemed  somewhat  more  contented, 
and  toward  the  time  planned  for  our  departure,  became 
once  more  as  devoted  as  she  had  ever  been  to  you.  We 
waited  on  the  veranda;  you  see,  she  had  promised  to  be 
with  us —  Oh,  how  shall  I  begin?  We  were  to  have  had 
a  ride,  all  of  us,  including  the  Englishman  of  whom  I 
spoke.  Eleven  o'clock  came  with  all  of  us  waiting  there 
for  her.  Then  your  father  went  into  the  house  after  her, 
up  the  stairs  to  her  room." 

"Oh,  Cordy,  go  on.  Tell  it  all.  I  can't  bear  the  sus- 
pense." 

"Well,  after  a  moment,  I  followed  him,  haunted  by  the 
truth.  And  without  knowing  how  I  got  into  her  chamber, 
I  was  suddenly  looking  down  upon  her  as  she  lay  with  her 
head  thro\vn  back  upon  the  pillows,  and  you  asleep  upon 
her  breast.  Your  light  curls  kissed  her  throat  and  arm,  her 
hand  elapsed  your  little  body  as  if  she  would  take  you  with 
her  into  the  great  mystery.  Strange  that  at  such  a  moment 
I  should  have  noticed  the  exquisiteness  of  the  silk  garment 
she  wore,  for  her  sense  of  the  artistic  was  undaunted  to 
the  end.  I  suppose  the  truth  was  that  I  could  not  realize 
what  had  happened.  Then  your  father's  eyes  met  mine 

82 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

in  a  look  which  stabbed,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  self- 
destruction. 

"His  lips  moved,  and  I,  too,  tried  to  speak.  Instead 
of  the  words  which  would  have  passed  between  us,  we 
knelt  to  take  you  from  her. 

"It  was  then  that  I  called  aloud  to  Dorry,  to  the  little 
Dorry  I  had  known  so  many  years,  who  had  been  so  much 
a  part  of  my  own  life. 

"I  do  not  remember  seeing  your  father  again  for 
hours — though  in  the  horror  and  excitement  which  fol- 
lowed I  doubtless  did  not  realize  much  that  was  taking 
place.  I  think  it  was  long,  long  afterward  that  he  let  me 
see  the  scrap  of  paper  which  he  had  found  with  your 
mother's  writing  on  it." 

"What  did  she  say?"  gasped  the  listening  girl  with 
staring  eyes. 

"That  she  was  too  weak  to  yield;  that  memories  and 
ideals  were  shielding  her  from  the  man  she  loved;  that 
her  dead  mother's  face,  her  baby's  smile,  her  husband's 
trust  were  fighting  for  her.  She  had  loved  her  husband 
once,  and  her  weakness  made  up  memories  which  she  could 
not  forget." 

"Weakness!"  moaned  Dorris.     "Why  not  strength?" 

Cordelia  clasped  her  close  and  rained  tears  upon  her 
face.  She  was  sobbing  out  her  heart  upon  Dorris's  breast. 

"But  my  poor  father!"  cried  the  girl  at  last.  "Poor 
old  Daddy!  How  did  he  bear  it  then?" 

"As  strong  men  bear  their  griefs,  but  it  told  upon  him. 
He  was  a  nervous  wreck  for  years;  and  not  until  we  had 
all  talked  to  him  of  his  duty  to  you,  not  until  we  brought 
you  daily  before  him  as  you  opened  out  like  the  loveliest 
bud,  the  daintiest  copy  of  her  he  had  lost,  did  he  seem  to 

83 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

begin  to  reconcile  himself  to  the  life  that  must  go  on  with- 
out his  golden  beauty.  And  by  the  time  you  were  old 
enough  to  know  a  father's  love,  you  had  to  all  appear- 
ances taken  her  place  in  his  affections,  become  the  center 
of  his  world." 

"  'Help  me  with  her,'  he  used  to  plead  with  me.  'She 
shall  have  everything  life  can  give.  This  melancholy  taint 
in  the  blood,  this  madness  of  love  which  came  like  a  disease 
to  her  mother  and  grandmother,  Cordelia,  it  can  be  eradi- 
cated; and  it  shall  be  if  I  live.'  ' 

"But  he  is  dead,"  was  the  husky  whisper  which  Cor- 
delia heard  like  a  voice  carried  from  a  distance,  as  upon 
the  breeze  from  the  lagoon,  and  without  turning  her  head, 
she  knew  that  the  living  Dorris  was  battling,  as  she  rose. 
"To  think  my  father  bore  it  all,  and  never  let  me  know. 
How  he  must  have  suffered !  How  it  must  have  wounded 
him  to  love  her  so,  and  know  she  died  for  some  one  else. 
What  heroism  to  keep  it  from  his  daughter,  that  he  might 
spare  her  pain.  He  would  have  told  me  some  time, 
though,  when  the  hour  came  that  I  must  know.  He  was 
like  you  in  that,  Cordelia ;  you  have  given  me  the  warning. 
And  I  would  have  been  brave  with  him  here  to  help  me, 
and  I  could  have  made  it  so  much  easier  for  him.  I  know, 
now,  what  Browning  means  by  'the  fleshly  barrier,'  which 
keeps  us  from  knowing  real  truth.  For  sometimes  my 
spirit  lifts  me  out  of  it,  Cordelia,  and  I  know  things  that 
I  have  never  seen  or  heard." 

From  a  drifting  song-boat  came  the  strains  of  "O,  sole 
mio,"  and  instinctively  the  two  women  walked  toward 
the  window. 

It  was  dark  in  the  balcony  where  they  lingered  for  a 
moment,  but  myriads  of  stars  were  out.  The  churches 

84 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

and  palaces  of  the  city  rose  from  the  waters,  black  in  the 
moonless  night.  The  song  died  away,  and  the  soft  sound 
of  an  oar  urging  a  pleasure-craft  into  a  silent  canal  took 
its  place  as  the  Giants'  hammers  struck  eleven,  each  stroke 
coming  to  them  across  the  waters  with  vivid  clearness  and 
rhythm. 

"Cordelia,"  Dorris  was  whispering,  "one  can  almost 
forget  tragedy  in  this  City  Beautiful,  once  queen  of  the 
waters,  the  Lady  of  the  Sea,  the  center  of  a  great  republic, 
the  city  of  love  and  cruelty,  and  despair;  the  city  of  beauty 
incomparable.  See !  It  rises  into  the  night,  its  dear  dead 
palaces'  phantoms.  How  cruel,  Cordelia,  that  such  a  city 
as  this  must  die,  with  its  churches,  pillars,  and  palaces  in- 
tact, and  the  doges  gone  the  way  of  the  whirling  dust. 
Where  are  the  old  Venetian  families  with  their  red-haired 
maidens,  made  for  love?  It's  almost  as  tragic  as  human 


woe." 


"Sweet,"  whispered  Cordelia,  "let  us  go  back  now 
and"— 

Dorris  put  up  a  caressing  arm. 

"Cordy,"  she  said,  "you  aren't  afraid  that  I  am  going 
to  end  as  she  did,  she  and  my  grandmother,  are  you?  Is 
that  why  you  told  me,  because  I  might  become  the  slave 
of  love?  I  don't  think  you  need  to  be  afraid,  dear  Cordy, 
for  I  think  I  can  shut  it  out  completely  now.  And  I  think 
I  know  why  I  have  craved  it  so,  thought  it  the  greatest 
thing  in  life;  it  was  that  sorrow  crying  in  my  blood,  that 
tragedy  luring  me  on.  I  can  laugh  now.  And,  Cordelia, 
it  seems  to  me  if  I  could  get  over  my  dear  father's  death, 
that  nothing  else  would  daunt  me." 

"Dorris,  just  one  favour  you  must  do  me.  Do  not  go 
out  with  Signor  Cenari  to-morrow." 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Apropos  of  what?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  but  if  you  love  me" — • 

"He  is  quite  harmless,  Cordelia,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. I  was  prepared  to  meet  such  a  clever  man,  and 
he  hasn't  impressed  me  at  all.  I  can't  remember  a  really 
witty  thing  he  has  said.  Of  course,  I  haven't  seen  much 
of  him.  But  he  is  an  eminent  painter,  and" — 

"That  is  the  danger,  Dorris.  He  grows  on  one.  His 
influence  is  insidious.  If  I  admire  him  even  now,  if  I 
warn  you — it's  his  personality.  How  can  I  tell  you  so 
you  will  understand?  I  enjoy  his  talent,  I  feel  his  power. 
He  is  a  linguist  and" — 

"Bah !    I  know  French  and  Italian  as  well  as  he." 

"But  promise  me  you  won't  go  to-morrow,  Dorris." 

"Why  should  I  promise?  I  want  to  go.  I  see  no  harm 
in  it.  He  is  nothing  to  me.  I  will  go.  You  don't  think, 
you  can't  think" — 

"What?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Cordelia,  tell  me  the  name  of  the  man 
my  mother  loved." 

A  fresh  wind  from  the  lagoon  rustled  the  blinds  as  they 
walked  indoors. 

Cordelia  silently  began  to  prepare  for  bed. 

"Who  was  the  man  my  mother  loved?"  insisted  Dorris 
after  a  silence. 

Cordelia  paused  and  looked  at  her,  hesitating,  sorrow- 
ful, but  with  just  a  little  gleam  of  wonder  and  surprise. 

"Dorry  dear,  can  you  not  guess?"  she  asked. 

The  girl  waited,  her  fancy  racing  furiously  with  an 
elusive  call. 

"Not  Mr.  Barker!"  she  gasped,  and  ran  to  Cordelia 
with  a  little  cry. 

86 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  X. 

.  .  .  She  to  me 

Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn,  and  of  wealth,  the  mart! 

— Childe  Harold. 

"Show  him  up,"  said  Dorris,  and  turned  to  Cordelia 
and  Grace.  "Be  nice  to  him,  Grace;  he  may  paint  your 
portrait." 

"Not  while  you  are  around,  Dorris,  never." 

"Am  I  such  a  bugbear  as  that?" 

"We-11,  I  have  heard  that  you  were  handsome." 

"By  the  way,  Miss  North,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Gunter 
with  a  view  to  pouring  oil  on  troubled  waters,  "you  remind 
me  so  much  of  a  girl  I  met  in  Boston,  who" — 

"Excuse  me,  Mrs.  Gunter,"  came  the  retort,  "I  am  a 
Virginian." 

"Indeed,  I  did  not  think  of  you  as  a  child  of  the 
South." 

"I  am  a  Southern  woman  to  the  last  drop  of  my  blood." 

Mrs.  Gunter  looked  amused.  "A  really  unrecon- 
structed rebel?"  she  tormented,  as  Cenari  was  ushered  in. 

"Good  afternoon,  ladies.  I  hear  talk  of  rebellion.  I 
hope  I  have  interrupted  no  sword-thrusts.  Duels  between 
ladies  are  my  pet  diversion.  After  all,  punctuality  may 
not  be  such  a  crime  as  my  estimable  friends  seem  to 
think." 

"Signor  Cenari,  let  me  present  you  to  Miss  North,  a 
daughter  of  our  South,"  was  Cordelia's  introduction. 

87 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Miss  North,  ah!  I  have  read  minute  descriptions  of 
your  ball-gowns  in  Virginia  papers." 

"How  very  flattering,  but  false.  My  mother  never 
allows  a  photograph  or  a  column  concerning  our  move- 
ments to  appear  in  a  newspaper." 

"Regrettable,  is  it  not,  Mrs.  Gunter?  Very  regrettable, 
but  a  duchess  may  not  protest.  What  a  bore  it  must  be, 
Miss  North." 

"Yes,  Signor  Cenari," — poor  Grace  was  literal — "it  is 
rather  annoying  at  an  exclusive  dance  to  have  a  reporter 
finger  one's  gown." 

"Well,  well,  I  always  knew  there  must  be  certain  com- 
pensations for  not  having  been  made  a  pretty  girl." 

"Goodness!    But  you  do  flatter,"  said  Grace. 

Cenari  turned  rather  pointedly  to  Mrs.  Gunter: 

"You  are  coming  with  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  and  me,  are 
you  not,"  he  inquired,  "for  an  inspection  of  venerable 
landmarks?" 

"Not  at  all,"  laughed  Cordelia,  "Mrs.  and  Miss  North 
are  going  with  me  to  look  up  some  first  editions  of 
Petrarca." 

"Really?  You  have  more  than  an  afternoon's  diligent 
search  before  you,  then.  Suppose  you  allow  me  to  present 
you  with  one  in  my  possession." 

"Signor  Cenari,"  put  in  Dorris,  "don't,  I  pray  you, 
throw  your  art  treasures  to  the  winds.  You  will  be  shorn 
completely  if  you  do." 

"Meaning  I  am  the  winds,  Dorris  mine?"  said  Cor- 
delia lightly. 

"Not  exactly  winds.  You  are  to  me  a  fragrant  breeze 
cooling  desert  sands,"  was  the  girl's  tender  response,  given 
airily.  "But  let  us  be  off,  Signor  Cenari.  Good-bye,  Cor- 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

delia  and  Grace.  And  if  either  of  you  find  an  extra  copy 
of  "La  Morte  della  Laura,"  don't  forget  me.  A  riverderci." 

Once  in  Cenari's  gondola,  Dorris  cried,  "I  am  so  lazy 
I  feel  I  should  like  to  drift  about  all  afternoon  in  this 
wonder  city.  Do  tell  me,  where  shall  we  go?" 

"Drift,  drift,  drift!  Suppose  we  drift  over  the  lagoon 
to  San  Lazzaro's  peaceful  garden.  Do  you  know  it?" 

"Yes,  Signor  Cenari,  very  well.  My  father  and  I  have 
seen  many  a  sun  go  down  from  its  green  giardini.  What 
a  lonely,  lovely  spot  it  is." 

"Al  San  Lazzaro"  were  his  orders. 

Across  the  lagoon  sped  the  gondola  in  the  beauty  of 
the  June  day.  Lateen  sails  reflected  their  vari-coloured 
tints  in  the  water,  some  of  them  desolate  at  their  moorings, 
others  manned  by  stately  old  mariners  chewing  tobacco, 
and  gloating  over  the  spoils  caught  from  the  sea. 

"The  Adriatic  is  a  wonderful  piece  of  water,  Mrs.  Van 
Lennep.  Gli  speccati  love  her  aquamarine  depths.  She 
washes  up  strange  sea-horses  on  her  golden  sands  and 
paints  her  shells  a  delicate  colour.  She  is  the  mother  of 
the  octopus,  and  in  turn,  the  pearl.  A  versatile  ocean,  the 
Adriatic.  Surely  there  are  peris  lingering  in  her  deeper 
waters.  We  rush  into  her  shallow  reefs  from  her  long 
gold  beach  and  she  greets  us  with  a  tender  kiss.  The 
lateen  sails  may  be  seen  all  day  along  her  cloudless  hori- 
zon. She  has  been  wed  by  the  doges  with  priceless  rings. 
She  has  brought  heroes  back  to  her  lord  and  master, 
Venice;  and  she  still  wooes  the  marble  steps  of  his  dying 
houses.  Adriatic,  Adriatic — I  am  glad  you  love  it." 

"Can  I  say  how  much? 

"  The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord 
And  annual  marriage  is  no  more  renewed.' " 

89 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  don't  you  find  the  fourth  canto 
of  "Childe  Harold"  the  most  adequate  description  of  the 
sea-city?" 

"I  think  it  must  have  been  one  of  Byron's  numerous 
passions." 

"What  a  life  the  handsome  cripple  had!  He  loved 
everything  beautiful — he  revelled  in  the  exquisite.  He 
was  at  once  philanthropist  and  libertine,  beauty-lover  and 
cynic,  poet  and  politician." 

"Oh,  Signor  Cenari,  why  do  so  many  Americans  count 
my  admiration  of  him  childish?  I  am  so  glad  to  find  a 
real  man  who  regards  his  genius  as  I  do." 

"To  me  he  is  the  master-poet  of  description;  not  of 
despair  like  Leopardi.  Does  anything  bring  home  to  you 
the  ruin  of  Venice  as  much  as" — 

"Let  me  say  it  for  you,"  she  interrupted. 

" '.  .  .  empty  halls, 

Thin  streets,  and  foreign  aspects,  such  as  must 
Too  oft  remind  her  who  and  what  enthralls, 
Have  flung  a  desolate  cloud  o'er  Venice   lovely  walls.' " 

"You  have,  indeed,  taken  the  words  out  of  my  mouth. 
You  know  with  all  their  charm,  your  countrywomen  as  a 
rule  do  not  appreciate  poetry." 

"With  me  it  is  an  inherited  taste;  my  father  loved 
it.  It  was  a  large  part  of  the  life  of  both  him  and 
my  mother." 

"We  are  nearing  San  Lazzaro.  I  expect  you  know  the 
story  of  the  stately  and  impressive  island.  (You  see,  I 
have  a  passion  for  stories.)  What  a  brave  little  woman 
Teresa  was!" 

"La  Guiccioli?" 

"No — Teresa  Ceno;  are  you  not  familiar  with  it?" 

90 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Indeed,  no.  I  have  never  even  heard  her  name.  Pos- 
sibly, though,  my  father  told  me  and  I  have  forgotten." 

"Probably  he  reserved  the  tragedies  of  life,  when  he 
gave  you  scraps  of  history." 

"Then  is  this  a  tragedy?  How  interesting !  The  tragic 
has  more  of  the  ideal,  someway,  Signer  Cenari.  Is  it 
not  so?" 

"Here  we  are.  You  shall  hear  of  Teresa  Ceno  and  the 
padre  when  we  are  seated  under  Lord  Byron's  olive  trees. 
May  I  help  you?  Jump  just  a  little.  Good!  Wait,  gon- 
dolier o." 

Then  the  gondolier  rowed  to  a  mooring  by  the  laterite 
steps.  Dorris  and  the  painter  were  escorted  to  the 
garden  where  Padre  Ganza,  friend  to  Cenari,  left  them  to 
talk. 

"Here  we  are  on  Byron's  bench,"  said  Cenari.  "Shall 
I  begin  my  story?" 

Dorris  dreamily  looked  upon  the  fairy  city,  rising  like 
Aphrodite  from  the  sea,  then  toward  the  Lido. 

"Do  tell  me  about  it,"  she  said. 

"Teresa  Ceno,  a  daughter  of  the  Eternal  City,  came  to 
Venice  in  1590  to  spend  the  summer  with  her  aunt,  Con- 
tessa  Torni,  to  learn  something  of  the  ways  of  society, 
from  this  illustrious  lady,  that  she  might  return  to  Rome 
to  be  the  sweetest  rose  of  the  winter.  Motherless,  her 
father  worshipped  her. 

"Contessa  Torni  found  Teresa  an  apt  pupil.  The 
gentle  maid  improved  each  deficiency,  and  enhanced  each 
gift.  In  all  Venice,  which  she  grew  to  love,  she  found 
San  Lazzaro  its  loveliest  spot.  Here  she  often  came  to 
read  and  dream,  Conte  Torni's  portly  gondolier,  Marino, 
playing  the  double  role  of  servant  and  protector.  Her 

91 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

visits  were  frequent  until  August  came,  but  early  in  that 
month  as  she  sat  under  the  cypresses  on  the  other  side 
of  the  garden,  she  was  greeted  by  a  young  priest  newly 
from  Armenia.  They  exchanged  a  few  commonplaces 
and  he  passed  on.  She  had  had  a  chance,  however,  to  be 
impressed  by  his  handsome  face  and  black  hair  well  set 
off  by  monkish  garb.  When  she  came  again,  he  waited 
once  more  to  speak  with  her;  and  gradually  all  time  spent 
in  his  company  she  grew  to  regard  as  precious.  He 
enlivened  her  mind  and  lit  up  her  fancy.  The  abbot 
noted  their  growing  friendship,  yet  regarded  the  girl  as 
a  mere  child ;  but  one  fatal  day  when  they  had  been  read- 
ing Dante  together,  the  young  priest  kissed  her  hand." 

Dorris  merely  looked  at  Cenari  as  he  paused. 

"That  was  the  beginning,"  he  went  on,  "but  it  was  not 
the  end." 

"Well,"  said  Dorris  interrogatively,  "what  about  it?" 

"It  was  at  sunset,  and  he  kissed  her  lips.  The  city  was 
over  there  bathed  in  red  and  gold." 

"Well,"  smiled  Dorris  looking  steadily  at  him,  "it  per- 
haps didn't  have  time  to  hide  its  face." 

"This  girl,  Teresa,  always  came  by  the  garden-gate, 
and  now  she  vanished  under  the  very  eyes  of  the  priest. 
He  tore  a  page  from  his  prayer-book  and  wrote  upon  it  a 
message  of  love." 

"How  exciting,"  interposed  Dorris,  "just  because  he 
was  a  priest.  Then  I  suppose  he  wrapped  it  round  a  stone 
and  threw  it  at  her — or,  I  should  say,  at  or  into  her  fast 
receding  gondola." 

"Well,  any  way,"  Cenari  retorted,  "Marino  caught  it 
and  gave  it  to  his  mistress." 

"And  what  happened  then?" 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"She  came  no  more  to  breathe  the  odium  fragrance  of 
the  garden  in  the  court  or  listen  to  the  boys  at  play.  She 
went  right  back  to  Rome." 

"Signor  Cenari,"  Dorris's  laugh  was  merry,  "of  all  the 
anti-climaxes  that  ever  I  heard!" 

"Just  wait.  Her  voice  and  beauty  made  her  a  belle, 
but  she  did  not  marry.  It  was  after  her  father  had  begged 
her  for  four  years  to  become  settled  in  life  by  accepting 
some  one  of  her  importunate  suitors,  that  she  lent  kind 
ears  to  Principe  Borni.  Now,  her  aunt,  Contessa  Torni, 
wanted  to  supervise  the  wedding  festivities,  and  to  have 
them  take  place  in  Venice,  but  Teresa  shrank  from  coming 
back  to  the  Palazzo  Torni.  However,  there  were  family 
complications  which  favoured  the  wishes  of  the  Contessa, 
and  Teresa  came  back  to  this  city  with  misgivings  and 
heart-burnings." 

"You  say  four  years  had  passed?  And  Teresa  had 
scarcely  seen  her  priest?" 

"And  you  say  you  like  poetry.  Well,  the  night  before 
the  wedding,  a  bal  masque  was  given  in  the  Palazzo  in 
her  honour.  She  was  dressed  like  a  nun.  In  the  midst  of 
the  revelry,  she  rushed  to  a  balcony  and  threw  Pietro 
Borni's  roses  into  the  canal.  An  inspiration  had  come  to 
her,  and  she  sought  Marino  to  help  her  carry  out  a  plan." 

Dorris  yawned. 

"In  a  few  moments  they  were  crossing  the  lagoon,  in 
great  trepidation,  for  San  Lazzaro,  and  stopped  before 
the  now  old  and  crumbling  garden-gate.  In  the  darkness 
she  groped  for  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin  where  she  would 
leave  the  few  words  the  young  priest  had  thrown  to  her. 
She  kissed  the  page  wet  with  tears,  and  raised  the  slab  at 
the  foot  of  the  shrine.  The  soft  earth  yielded  to  her 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

touch,  and  with  little  trouble  she  lifted  the  stone.  Then 
her  eyes  caught  sight  of  something  white,  and  groping  she 
found  a  sheet  of  parchment.  She  seized  it  and  ran  to 
the  laterite  steps  where  a  solitary  torch  was  burning." 

Cenari  paused,  and  Dorris  cried: — 

"If  you  have  any  story  to  tell,  Signer  Cenari,  I  know 
you  are  teasing  me." 

"Becoming  interested  at  last?  Well,  the  first  word  she 
read  was  'Teresa.'  It  was  a  prayer  the  priest  had  written 
to  the  Virgin;  and  instinctively  realizing  this,  she  took  it 
back  to  where  she  had  found  it  and  left  it  under  the  stone 
with  the" — 

"Oh,  yes,  the  everlasting  fly-leaf!     Is  that  all?" 

"The  next  day  she  married  Principe  Borni.  One  of  her 
descendants  now  occupies  the  Borni  palace  in  Rome,  and 
is  one  of  my  most  esteemed  friends." 

"I  can't  say  I  like  your  story,  Signer  Cenari;  it  lacks 
point.  All  that  my  father  told  me  of  Venice  lives  in  my 
imagination, — is  part  of  me." 

"Then  you  really  don't  like  a  story  that  slips  from  the 
mind  having  nothing  tangible  as  the  excuse  for  the 
telling?" 

Dorris  flushed. 

"Teresa  Ceno  was  a  fool,"  she  said.  "Fancy  a  six- 
teenth, or  any  other  century  girl  flirting  in  that  disgusting 
way  with  a  priest  so  weak, — so  unworthy  of  his  gown. 
Ugh!" 

The  sun  was  lighting  up  the  ducal  palace  with  pale 
pink.  Here  and  there  Dorris  caught  the  steel  of  a  distant 
roof  turned  into  gold  by  the  play  of  light. 

"So,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  you  question  my  veracity  in 
selecting  that  story?" 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"I  believe  we  were  not  discussing  questions  of  veracity, 
signore,  I  am  puzzled  only  to  know  whether  it  was  one  of 
your  invention,  it  was  so  dull,  you  see, — or  whether  I 
might  find  it  in  the  Blue  Book  of  Rome.  If  you  had  told 
me  about  Alfieri  and  the  Countess  of  Albany,  now,  or  even 
about  the  time-worn  Beatrice  Cenci  and  her  lover-priest, — 
Paolo  and  Francesca  live  with  me  always,  haunt  me,  and 
so  do  Byron  and  his  Countess.  In  all  these  there  is  subtle 
charm ;  something  sweet  underlies'real  romance  and  lingers 
with  it,  and  I  can  even  dream  of  lovers  on  such  afternoons 
as  this." 

"And  what  in  your  opinion  raises  the  romances  you 
have  mentioned  above  the  commonplace  humdrum  love- 
affairs  of  the  multitude?" 

"It  may  be  genius." 

"Paolo  was  not  a  genius." 

Dorris  contracted  her  brows,  irritated  by  something 
insistent,  almost  suggestive,  in  his  manner. 

"You  mean  is  not,  do  you  not?"  she  said. 

They  both  laughed. 

"See,  the  tide  is  rising.  Look  at  that  gondola.  It 
seems  to  have  left  the  Lido  for  town,  and  is  drifting 
toward  us.  How  very  strange,  signore." 

"It's  Lady  Blanchard's  boat,"  said  Cenari,  in  a  changed 
voice  in  which  amusement  and  satire  contended.  "See, 
you  can  just  distinguish  her." 

Dorris  ran  to  the  wall  and  waved  her  parasol.  The 
boat,  making  good  time,  was  headed  for  Venice.  Dorris 
thought  Lady  Blanchard  turned  twice  to  look  her  way, 
but  could  not  be  sure.  She  watched  the  gondola  a  moment, 
and  then  said  to  Cenari  who  now  stood  at  her  elbow : 

"Let's  overtake  her." 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"And  leave  this  wonderful  garden?  Perhaps  if  you 
stay  a  little,  I  can  tell  a  story  that  would  really  enter- 
tain you." 

"I  should  be  inclined  to  doubt  it,  after  what  I  have 
already  heard,"  she  laughed.  "Let  us  go." 

Cenari  hesitated,  protested,  and  then  reluctantly  walked 
toward  the  steps. 

As  she  was  being  assisted  to  her  seat  among  the 
cushions,  Dorris  was  conscious  of  a  vague,  tremulous 
uneasiness  at  the  touch  of  his  hand.  As  the  gondola  glided 
out  into  the  lagoon,  a  realization  that  after  all  she  had 
never  lived  as  was  her  right,  had  never  known  the  deep 
emotions  which  are  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life — a  defiance 
half  mingled  with  fear  stormed  through  her.  In  a  mo- 
ment, an  old  misery  so  closely  in  tune  with  some  new 
joy,  would  have  made  her  lean  forward  for  Cenari's  slight 
caress. 

They  drifted  back.  The  boat  which  Dorris  had  had  in 
view  when  she  urged  Cenari  from  the  garden,  was  leaving 
them  far  behind,  yet  she  scarcely  remembered  it  at  all;  it 
was  but  a  black  speck  now,  the  red  sashes  of  the  gon- 
doliers standing  out  like  solitary  signals  on  the  lagoon. 

"Signore,"  demanded  Dorris  as  they  were  turning  into 
the  narrow  canal  for  Danieli's,  "why  does  one  intuitively 
expect  so  much  more  of  you  than  one  gets  ?  I  do  not  know 
for  my  part,  but  you  are  horribly  disappointing." 

He  looked  for  the  smile  which  might  be  expected  as  an 
offset  to  the  discourtesy  of  the  words,  but  she  turned  her 
head  as  she  said  good-bye  to  him. 


96 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XL 

Lo,  this  is  she  that  was  the  world's  delight ; 
The  old  grey  years  were  parcels  of  her  might ; 
The  strewing  of  the  ways  wherein  she  trod 
Were  the  twain  seasons  of  the  day  and  night. 

— Laus  Veneris. 

The  next  morning  Dorris  busied  herself  with  letter- 
writing.  She  read  over  twice  the  communications  to  Mrs. 
Barker  on  the  one  hand  and  her  husband  on  the  other. 

To  the  HONOURABLE  MRS.  ROLAND  BARKER, 
1 20  Prince's  Gate,  London. 

HOTEL  ROYAL  DANIELI,  VENEZIA. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Barker: — 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  appreciate  the  delicate 
courtesy  shown  me  in  your  invitation  to  spend  July  with 
you,  and  regret  my  inability  to  accept,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  my  friend,  Mrs.  Gunter,  has  decided  to  remain  in 
Venice  with  me  at  the  Palazzo  Spechio-Torni  until  the 
first  week  in  August.  Only  this  morning  we  made  arrange- 
ments for  the  rental  of  the  first  floor  of  this  palace  and 
have  taken  steps  about  domestic  arrangements  and  serv- 
ants, and  purchased  a  horse  for  my  use  to  be  stabled  across 
the  lagoon  at  Chioggia. 

Nevertheless,  I  hope  some  day  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  you. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mr.  Barker  and  many  thanks 
for  your  thought, 

Believe  me,  cordially  yours, 

DORRIS  BEDFORD  VAN  LENNEP. 

97 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Dorris  sighed  as  the  letter  dropped  from  her  hands. 
What  a  bore  the  conventions  could  be  at  times,  not  to 
speak  of  obligations  to  one's  husband.  She  took  up  the 
letter  to  America  with  a  distinct  consciousness  of  duty  well 
done ;  and  this  is  what  she  read : — 

Dear  Harry : — 

What  you  speak  of  is  sheer  absurdity,  and  you  know  it. 
Why  worry  about  me?  Cordelia  is  here  with  me  now,  and 
we  have  talked  it  over  and  decided  to  leave  this  hotel  and 
go  to  the  palace  where  Daddy,  Cordelia  and  I  spent  my 
seventeenth  summer.  I  assure  you  that  I  look  forward 
to  a  renewal  of  the  old  associations  of  the  palace  as  I 
never  could  have  believed  possible. 

From  what  you  say,  I  should  think  it  would  take  only 
a  small  amount  of  clever  brain-work  to  complete  your 
father's  interests  in  Boston,  and  come  back  here  to  me. 
I  am  glad  he  is  on  his  feet  again,  and  hope  he  will  have 
a  complete  and  speedy  recovery.  Love  to  him  and  your 
sweet  mother  from  me,  and  ask  the  latter  if  she  has  yet 
forgiven  me ! 

Don't  bother  about  money-matters.  I  am  so  amply 
supplied  at  present  that  I  can  even  afford  to  be  tempted  by 
a  pretty  trinket  now  and  then.  Cordelia  heard  about  a 
very  fine  horse,  at  present  the  property  of  a  man  at  Mestre. 
I  may  consider  renting  her  for  a  little  while;  she  can  be 
stabled  at  Chioggia,  where  I  can  mount  for  a  ride  through 
the  peaceful  country  along  the  Brenta. 

Come  back  as  soon  as  possible.  I  look  for  you  toward 
July.  Remember  my  word  is  final  about  returning  at 
this  time. 

Cordelia  says  she  sends  a  kiss,  and  to  tell  you  she  thinks 

98 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

me  particularly  wicked,  an  opinion  in  which  I  do  not 
concur. 

Good-bye,  Your  girl, 

DORRIS. 

P.  S. : — Writ  to  the  bankers,  not  here  or  to  the 
Spechio-Torni.  D. 

"There,  Cordelia — two  duty  letters  off  my  mind.  Now 
what  shall  we  do  this  afternoon?" 

"Suppose  we  call  at  the  Colbrizzi?  Viola  will  be  leav- 
ing shortly.  Have  you  made  your  dinner-call?" 

"No,  and  I'm  not  going  to.  Venice  is  not  the  place 
for  dinner-calls.  You  go,  and  leave  my  card." 

"Indeed,  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  And  how,  pray, 
would  you  pass  your  afternoon,  you  little  savage?" 

"If  the  Norths  don't  get  back  to  spoil  it,  I  shall  have  a 
little  time  to  think  in." 

"Such  wonderful  thoughts,  forsooth!  Well,  they  will 
have  to  sprout  at  some  more  auspicious  time.  For,  Dorris, 
I  am  not  going  alone  to  the  Colbrizzi.  What  would  Viola 
think?" 

"She'd  probably  think  you  had  my  card  with  you." 

"Which  I  wouldn't  have." 

"Why,  yes;  I  mean  to  tuck  it  into  the  folds  of  your 
dress,  you  see,  and  besides  you  wouldn't  have  Viola  know 
how  hard  I  am  to  manage." 

"Suppose  you  read  while  I  am  gone,  then.  You  musn't 
be  seen  wandering  about  the  city,  you  know.  Do  you 
know  William  Locke?  Read  'The  Morals  of  Marcus 
Ordeyne'  again  or  Pierre  Loti's  'Les  Desenchantees.'  ' 

"I  haven't  read  the  first  you  mention,  chiefly  because 
the  Norths  recommended  it." 

99 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Well,  you  have  something  yet  to  live  for.  Locke  is 
such  a  charming  pedant.  I  know  of  no  one  whose  pedan- 
try is  so  inoffensive  and  attractive.  You  will  love  Car- 
lotta,  I  know." 

"I  shall  look  it  over,  then,  if  I  am  left  to  myself." 
"Really,  Dorris,  you  are  not  very  polite." 
"Rien  ne  sert  courir,  il  faul  partir  a  point.    There,  Cor- 
delia, there's  your  answer.    Don't  trouble  me  any  more." 
And  Cordelia  did  not. 

Curled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  couch  that  afternoon,  when 
she  had  seen  Cordelia  off,  her  thoughts  wrestled  fiercely 
with  the  problem  of  unpleasant  things.  She  could  not  see 
the  use  of  anything  in  all  the  world  that  brought  misery, 
and  she  had  lived  nineteen  years !  And  wasn't  every  con- 
dition in  her  life  making  for  the  unsatisfactory,  working 
itself  out  in  precisely  the  way  she  had  not  foreseen?  Why 
should  she  be  troubled  with  a  sense  of  disloyalty,  with  a 
qualm  of  any  kind,  considering  the  mistakes  she  had 
made,  the  unhappiness  she  had  borne  simply  because  she 
wanted  to  escape  from  a  perfectly  justifiable  discontent. 
And  wasn't  it  to  be  expected  that  a  high-spirited  young  lady 
should  marry  to  escape  some  one  who  had  asserted  a  right 
of  guardianship  which  even  her  father  would  have  denied? 
That  she  had  done  wrong,  Dorris  never  for  a  moment 
admitted  even  to  herself;  but  that  fate  had  treated  her 
with  insolence,  she  was  tragically  convinced.  She  opened 
the  Rubaiyat  with  her  finger  on  the  very  stanza — 

"What !  out  of  senseless  Nothing  to  provoke 
A  conscious  Something  to  resent  the  yoke 

Of  unpermitted  Pleasure,  under  pain 
Of  Everlasting  Penalties  if  broke !" 

A  knock  at  the  door  broke  into  her  reverie,  and  when 
the  boy  entered  with  Lady  Cheltenham's  card,  she  sent 

100 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

him  away  with  a  fierce  reminder  that  she  was  not  at  home. 
The  boy  stared  in  bewilderment  as  he  backed  out  of  the 
door  which  closed  almost  noiselessly  behind  him.  The 
sense  of  having  actually  scared  some  one  into  such  timor- 
ous compliance  as  this,  made  Dorris  laugh  as  she  caught 
her  reflection  in  the  glass. 

She  was  in  an  altogether  different  mood  when  Cenari's 
card  was  brought  to  her;  and  it  seemed  as  if  it  was  what 
she  had  been  expecting  all  day. 

He  invited  her  and  Mrs.  Gunter  to  dine  with  him  at 
the  Grand  Hotel,  and  Dorris  accepted  with  an  alacrity 
which  secretly  surprised  him. 

"We  shall  love  to, — at  least  I  speak  for  myself,"  were 
her  words.  "Rain  in  Venice  makes  life  a  desert.  I  am 
so  glad  you  have  come."  And  she  looked  into  his  frank 
eyes  and  smiled. 

He  sat  down  with  an  uneasy  conviction  that  she  was 
making  game  of  him. 

"What  book  holds  your  attention  to-day?" 

"Omar — ever  old,  yet  eternally  young.  As  old  and  as 
young  as  I.  His  philosophy  maddens  me,  turns  in  upon 
me  and  twists  and  writhes  and — oh,  anything  at  all  that 
is  weird.  Does  it  affect  you  that  way?  Sit  down  and  talk 
to  me,  and  try  to  live  up  to  your  reputation." 

As  he  was  already  seated,  and  as  her  manner  was  any- 
thing but  that  of  the  woman  he  had  known  as  Dorris  Van 
Lennep,  there  was  a  recurrence  of  uneasiness.  Neverthe- 
less, there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  be  left,  with  all 
the  cards  in  her  hands. 

"Genial  Omar  maddens  you?"  he  repeated.  "What 
an  extraordinary  girl.  Pray,  how  do  you  interpret 
him?" 

101 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

She  tried  to  say  something,  and  again  he  was  puzzled 
by  the  way  she  said  it,  but  he  interrupted  blithely: — 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  how  can  you  be  so  depressed? 
Omar  believes  in  humanity.  I  think  he  believes  in  Para- 
dise, too." 

"Well,  I  can't  go  so  deep  as  to  transpose  his  beautiful 
metaphors  into  plain  English.  Parlons  Franqais" 

Cenari  felt  himself  gracefully  meeting  her  mood,  and 
wondered  at  it.  Dorris  was  amused  by  his  evident  strug- 
gle to  keep  pace  with  her,  nevertheless.  After  all,  he  was 
clever.  Her  husband  would  have  simply  bantered  her — or 
suggested  a  hearty  meal ! 

After  he  had  gone,  all  too  soon,  for  Cenari  had  the  art 
of  never  staying  quite  as  long  as  people  would  like  to 
have  him,  she  paced  the  floor  with  a  sense  of  being  bored 
even  by  Cordelia.  Cenari's  manners  were  so  easy.  He 
understood  her,  and  his  social  tact  was  so  exquisite  that 
one  quite  forgot  its  art.  He  was  the  first  man  she  had 
seen  who  wore  his  clothes  so  well  that  one  forgot  to  remark 
it.  His  grace  extended  even  to  his  manner  of  speech, 
whether  in  English  or  Italian,  and  it  was  wholly  un- 
strained. 

What  she  did  not  realize  was,  that  he  had  studied 
women  as  closely  and  as  conscientiously  as  he  had  studied 
art.  And  if  he  had  the  charm  of  the  man  of  society, 
there  was  the  esprit  fin  of  the  artist.  How  subtly  he 
had  conveyed  to  her  the  power  of  her  beauty  without 
words. 

"Signore,"  she  said  to  him  impulsively  (and  never  had 
she  so  regretted  an  impulse  now  that  she  had  time  to 
consider  it),  "what  made  you  commit  that  faux  pas  the 
first  night  I  met  you  ?" 

102 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  I  knew  a  man  once  who  hated 
Venice.  After  that,  can  you  wonder  at  any  idiosyncrasy, 
even  such  rudeness  as  I  was  capable  of  in  reciting  that 
poem  under  the  influence  of  your  presence  in  that  golden 
setting?  But  I  am  forgiven,  am  I  not?" 

"We  dine  with  you  at  seven,"  had  been  her  parting 
words. 

The  impression  wrhich  he  left  upon  her  in  the  afternoon 
was  emphasized  by  the  conversation  between  him  and  Cor- 
delia at  the  jolly  little  dinner  at  the  Grand  Hotel  that 
evening.  Their  table  was  near  a  window  where  they  could 
look  out  upon  a  night,  the  glory  of  which  was  heightened 
by  contrast  with  a  dismal  day. 

Dorris  herself  was  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  was  satis- 
fied just  to  listen  to  him  and  Mrs.  Gunter  as  they  called 
up  reminiscences  of  many  of  their  mutual  friends.  Occa- 
sionally Cenari  would  turn  half  apologetically  to  her,  then, 
as  if  carried  along  by  Mrs.  Gunter's  enthusiasm,  would 
seem  to  forget  the  girl's  very  presence,  as  he  caught  up  the 
thread  of  the  conversation  and  pursued  it.  And  Cordelia 
was  so  oblivious.  If  Dorris  was  so  young,  after  all  she 
was  a  married  woman;  and  these  two  friends  were  pos- 
sibly exaggerating  her  indifference  to  the  world,  in  which, 
just  for  the  moment  now,  they  moved. 

A  faint  idea  that  Cenari  might  be  posing,  setting  off  the 
handsome  woman  of  the  world  against  herself,  for  the 
purpose  of  watching  effects, — crossed  her  mind,  but  found 
no  lodgment. 

It  was  when  coffee  was  being  served  that  she  was  dis- 
tracted by  the  appearance  of  a  woman  alone  at  an  oppo- 
site table,  who  certainly  had  seemed  to  incline  her  head 
toward  them  with  an  air  of  recognition.  The  bizarre 

103 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

costume  of  the  woman — Was  she  a  lady?  Dorris  found 
herself  questioning, — would  have  made  her  presence  nota- 
ble in  any  assembly;  and  Dorris  was  positive  from  a  swift 
survey  of  Cordelia's  face  that  she,  at  any  rate,  had  never 
seen  her  before. 

Why  should  Cenari's  expression  have  undergone  an 
indefinable  change?  Not  that  he  was  embarrassed,  for 
he  was  not;  but  Dorris  was  certain  that  he  was  annoyed. 
His  conversation  with  Cordelia  was  abruptly  ironed  flat, 
and  Dorris,  exulting  in  her  perspicuity,  sipped  her  Turkish 
coffee  and  furtively  studied  the  stranger's  face.  She  was 
declassee,  fashionably  so,  and  of  Cenari's  under-world. 
Why  should  this  interest  her, — the  problem  of  his  acquaint- 
ances dining  alone  in  public  places?  But  there  was  a  fas- 
cination in  the  unknown  aspects  of  this  Italian's  life,  and 
try  as  she  would,  her  thoughts  reverted  to  it. 

They  passed  out  upon  the  terrace  for  their  gondola  a 
little  later,  and  Dorris  was  confirmed  in  her  surmise  that 
Cenari  had  been  disturbed  at  dinner.  Cordelia  appeared 
serenely  at  ease  with  him,  however,  even  when  the  tension 
and  reserve  were  marked. 

After  listening  for  a  time  to  the  singing  in  the  boats, 
Cenari  seemed  almost  to  invite  an  end  to  their  evening 
together,  and  when  he  assisted  Dorris  to  alight,  shortly 
after,  and  asked  for  a  sitting  "day  after  to-morrow,"  she 
rather  curtly  refused. 

Did  he  suppose  that  she  had  not  seen  that  woman  from 
the  Grand  Hotel  pass  into  the  court  through  the  Schia- 
voni  entrance? 


104 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Youth  with  his  half-divine  mistakes 

She  never  can  forgive, 
So  much  she  hates  his  charm  which  makes 

Worth  while  the  life  we  live. 

— Last  Poems  of  Laurence  Hope. 

A  hundred  years  before  the  Renaissance  had  trans- 
formed Venice  into  a  show-city,  the  marble  walls  of  the 
Palazzo  Spechio-Torni — where  Cordelia  ::nd  Dorris  had 
now  become  established — were  standing.  In  spite  of  its 
cinque-cento  origin,  it  remains  one  of  the  loveliest  palaces 
in  Italy.  On  the  Grand  Canal  below  the  Accademia,  its 
garden-wall  is  wooed  by  the  green  of  its  vines  which  hang 
far  into  the  water,  while  within  its  heavy  iron  gates,  many 
a  crime  of  the  Council  of  Ten  was  conceived,  many  a 
tragedy  enacted.  Its  history  abounds  in  romantic  tales, 
from  the  time  of  Prince  Spechio  to  Teresa  Ceno  of  Rome ; 
and  from  her  day  down  to  the  eighteenth  century,  innumer- 
able murders  are  detailed  as  having  taken  place  in  the 
court.  Maids  were  wooed  and  duels  fought  in  the  moonlit 
jessamine  garden,  while  within,  in  the  lighted  ball-room, 
the  brilliant  conversazioni  of  the  Contessa  Torn!  were 
taking  place,  or  the  masquerades  of  the  carnival  which 
lasted  till  the  dawn. 

It  was-  the  floor  which  contained  this  ball-room  and  the 
reception  rooms  opening  from  it,  frescoed  by  Veronese, 
that  Dorris  and  her  friend  occupied.  Their  sleeping  apart- 
ments overlooked  the  Grand  Canal  and  were  separated  by 
the  Carrara  marble  of  the  sunken  bath.  This  luxurious 
room,  doubtless  designed  by  some  favoured  courtesan, 

105 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

ornamented  by  carved  mermaids  and  a  statue  of  an  un- 
known Venus,  had  caught  Dorris's  fancy. 

A  few  mornings  after  their  arrival,  she  and  Cordelia 
were  taking  their  coffee  and  rolls  in  this  room  which  was 
typical  of  the  beauty  and  pleasure-loving  Venetian  of  the 
golden  age. 

"Dorris,  dear,"  Cordelia  was  saying  as  they  sat  together 
on  the  slope  of  the  unused  bath,  "it  almost  seems  to  me 
that  ages  ago  when  perfumed  water  flowed  into  this  bath, 
that  Venus  over  there,  turned  her  head  like  Galatea.  At 
first  I  didn't  like  her,  but  she  grows  on  one.  She  pos- 
sesses something  of  the  stately  grandeur  of  a  Phidias, 
softened  by  the  grace  of  a  Canova." 

"Yes,  last  night  when  I  came  in  here  with  a  lighted 
candle,  I  was  almost  tempted  to  ask  her  who  chiselled  her 
lines,  but  feared  that  she  might  quicken  into  life.  I  can 
see  her  riding  to  hounds,  Cordelia." 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  Dorris,  she  is  a  Diana." 

"No,  Cordelia,  she  is  not  the  goddess  of  the  hunt,  but 
rather  Cytherea  rising  from  the  sea.  She  could  love,  and 
greet  her  lover  with  outstetched  arms  and  a  passionate 
kiss." 

"Like  a  loyal  wife !"  finished  Cordelia,  with  a  note  of 
reproof  in  her  tone. 

"Ah!"  said  the  girl,  unheeding,  "body  and  soul  she 
was  owned  by  some  Italian,  painter  or  sculptor,  whose 
spirit  was  above  the  commerce  of  Venice,  and  who  crowned 
her  with  laurels  and  flowered  wreaths.  I  feel  that  he  wor- 
shipped that  statue.  Can't  you  see,  Cordelia,  that  is  why 
she  is  so  human?" 

"Dorris,  you  little  pagan;  even  so,  your  idea  is  beautiful 
in  itself,  if  it  applies  only  to  poetry.  Fancy  a  sane  man 

106 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

like  Cenari,  gathering  jessamine  and  laying  it  at  her  feet. 
Or  is  he,  like  the  strong  men  of  Greece,  worshipping  this 
deity  merely  as  a  medium,  a  symbol  only,  of  the  divine? 
I  love  the  mythology  myself." 

Dorris  looked  up  dreamily  at  her  friend. 

"What  was  that  you  said  about  Cenari?"  she  inquired. 

"Well,  Dorris,  to  come  down  from  the  smiles  of  Cor- 
reggio  madonnas  to  earth,  and  the  worshipping  of  Venus, 
when  do  you  expect  you  will  get  back?  I  am  rather  dis- 
appointed that  Cenari  rides.  It  will  be  quite  insufferable 
if  he  is  going  to  take  you  away  from  me  daily.  Where  do 
you  suppose  he  got  the  horses  ?  Your  saddle  will  probably 
not  fit." 

"Oh,  there  are  lots  of  horses  in  Mestre  and  Padua.  I 
am  not  worrying  about  that.  I  do  not  care  in  the  least 
if  the  saddle  is  so  small  that  I  shall  be  quite  miserable,  or 
so  large  that  I  shall  have  a  bad  fall.  You  may  be  surprised 
that  I  am  glad  I  am  going.  You  don't  seem  to  want  me 
to  have  a  good  time.  If  you  prefer,"  sarcastically,  "we 
can  take  the  train  to  Chioggia,  instead  of  going  in  the 
ordinary  way  by  gondola.  I  hate  to  think  of  it,  though, 
as  it  is  such  a  fine  trip  over  the  lagoon  on  a  day  that  prom- 
ised so  much  when  I  awoke.  Now,  don't  interrupt  or 
answer  me  one  way  or  the  other  for  I  must  get  into  my 
habit." 

Dorris  stepped  into  her  spacious  bed-room  of  black  oak', 
in  the  center  of  which  was  a  four-poster  curtained  in  rose 
silk.  The  ceiling  was  of  carved  oak,  and  the  walls  of  rose 
tapestry,  softened  by  an  occasional  mirror  encased  in  gold, 
or  a  portrait  of  a  dead  Spechio  or  Torni.  A  huge  antique 
dressing-table  loaded  with  Dorris's  silver,  a  large  carved 
Venetian  chair  with  seat  and  back  of  leather,  and  two 

107 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Persian  rugs  completed  the  furnishings.  One  of  the  three 
balconied  windows  gave  upon  the  palace  garden. 

It  was  with  anxious  affection  that  Cordelia  bade  Dorris 
good-bye,  and  waited  by  the  window  until  the  gondola 
should  be  out  of  sight. 

"Strange,"  she  meditated,  "that  black  gondola  follow- 
ing them  as  it  were,  but  I  suppose  that  must  be  my  notion. 
Still,  I  have  not  seen  a  closed  boat  since  my  last  visit  here. 
How  weird  it  looks  with  its  black  bulk  against  the  sum- 
mer sun." 

She  left  the  balcony  and  stepped  into  the  room. 
There  were  times  when  she  regretted  that  she  had  left 
Brookline  to  come  here.  Dorris  had  married  against  her 
counsel  and  advice,  and  surely  now  that  she  was  a  woman 
grown,  her  own  responsibility  was  ended.  But  it  was  not 
the  sense  of  responsibility  that  held  her  here  after  all,  but 
the  demands  of  affection.  Dorris  filled  the  place  which 
her  own  children  might  have  held,  though  as  she  felt  just 
now,  Cordelia  could  have  hoped  that  her  own  might  have 
been  more  tractable.  She  did  not  approve  of  Dorris's 
growing  interest  in  Cenari — and  she  had  her  own  reasons 
for  being  anxious  about  that  black  gondola. 

Her  little  Italian  maid  seemed  purposely  to  break  into 
her  reverie.  Could  she  be  of  service  to  the  signora  ?  Cor- 
delia surveyed  her  smilingly,  and  then  said  suddenly : — 

"Do  you  know  the  Palazzo  Colbrizzi?" 

"Yes,  signora." 

"Then  you  can  do  something  for  me.  Hurry  there  at 
once.  See  Lady  Blanchard.  Ask  her  if  I  may  go  to  her, 
or  if  she  will  come  to  me;  and  do  it  quickly."  And  Cor- 
delia took  a  lira  from  her  bag  and  pressed  it  into  Maria's 
hand. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

When  the  maid  came  back,  as  she  did  presently  with  the 
message  that  Mrs.  Gunter  might,  perhaps,  take  luncheon 
with  Lady  Blanchard,  Cordelia  was  annoyed.  She  had 
made  other  plans  for  the  middle  of  the  day.  However, 
the  deed  was  done,  and  she  hurried  to  the  palace. 

Lady  Blanchard  had  her  ushered  into  the  gold  room, 
and  rose  graciously  to  meet  her. 

"My  dear,  this  is  a  pleasure,"  she  said.  "And  Mrs. 
Van  Lennep?  Do  you  come  so  far  without  her?"  Her 
eyes  opened  wide  at  Cordelia's  sudden  air  of  hesitation. 
"She  is  off  with  Paolo?  Well,  well,  you  must  be  proud  of 
that  handsome  girl,  proud  that  she  is  not  your  daughter, 
I  mean.  The  whole  city  is  ringing  with  her  conquest.  He 
is  charming,  really." 

Cordelia  disclaimed  any  alarm,  and  Lady  Blanchard 
continued : — 

"They  say  he  even  takes  a  chaperon  to  protect  her  from 
spiteful  tongues  when  they  dine  together.  It's  a  new  role 
for  you,  my  dear,  that  of  duenna.  Wasn't  it  my  very  good 
fortune  to  have  brought  them  together?  I  am  delighted. 
The  affair  really  promises  to  be  quite  the  most  startling 
Venice  has  known  for  some  time." 

"I  can  see  how  perfectly  delighted  you  are,  Viola ;  you 
don't  need  to  put  it  into  words." 

"But  the  girl  knows  the  game  so  well;  youth  and  experi- 
ence seem  to  go  hand  in  hand  in  that  easy,  primitive  way." 

Cordelia  turned  upon  her. 

"Viola,  you  may  joke  about  your  admirers  and  mine,  to 
me.  But  understand  this,  Dorris  is  not  to  be  spoken  of 
in  that  way.  She  is  not  a  flirt,  and  never  will  be.  As  for 
Signor  Cenari,  I  have  failed  to  notice  any  devotion  on  his 
part  at  all.  I  admit  that  she  would  be  wiser  to  drop  his 

109 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

acquaintance  entirely;  it  does  her  no  good.  And  his  name 
has  been  linked  with  that  of  so  many  women,"  Cordelia 
looked  daggers  at  her  friend,  "that  however  innocent  of 
wrong  Dorris  might  be,  or  however  slight  her  acquaintance 
with  him,  evil  tongues  might  wound.  She  has  never  had  a 
breath  against  her  good  name.  Do  you  think  this  hurtful 
to  her?" 

"Hurtful,  how?  How  very,  very  literal.  And  you 
Americans  talk  about  English  lack  of  humour!  Can't  I 
ever  jest  about  your  precious  child?  Why,  I  have  even 
caught  you  up!" 

"But,  Viola,  this  is  a  serious  matter  to  me.  I  don't  want 
Dorris  jested  about.  You  understand  quite  well  how  near 
that  sort  of  thing  may  be  to  people's  real  belief  in  wrong- 
doing?" 

The  butler  announced  the  serving  of  luncheon. 

"Cordelia,  perhaps  Dorris  —  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Van 
Lennep — is  really  too  young  to  know  such  men  as  Cenari." 
She  drew  her  arm  caressingly  through  that  of  Mrs.  Gunter 
as  they  crossed  the  room.  "To  speak  seriously,  she  might 
do  well  not  to  be  seen  with  him  alone;  and  if  you  can 
induce  her  to  be  wise  and  drop  him  entirely — well,  it  would 
be  better." 

Cordelia  was  fully  aware  of  Lady  Blanchard's  play; 
fully  convinced  of  what  she  had  long  suspected,  and  which 
the  Englishwoman  thought  she  was  so  cleverly  hiding. 
Cenari,  certainly,  was  more  than  a  match  for  one  less 
feline  than  Viola. 

But  they  passed  into  the  rotunda  chatting  pleasantly. 


110 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

As  1  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

O'er  each  visioned  homicide 

That  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied?) 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

— Browning. 

Dorris  and  Signer  Cenari  were  pacing  their  horses 
across  the  green  meadows  of  the  Brenta  valley  to  the  tune 
of  goat-bells  and  a  merry  shepherd's  lute.  The  country 
was  bathed  in  summer  sunshine,  and  the  Brenta  was  so 
calm  that  the  reflections  in  its  surface  were  as  perfect  in 
detail  as  the  trees  and  shrubs  that  cast  them. 

"We  are  nearing  Mira,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  said  Cenari 
at  last. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad.  I  have  always  wanted  to  see  its 
famous  villa.  But  see  in  the  distance,  villa  after  villa  ris- 
ing into  the  air!  How  white  they  are;  and  there  is  a 
pink  one!" 

Dorris  pointed  with  her  crop. 

"It  is  beautiful.  Do  you  know,  the  horizon  over  there 
looks  like  the  fairy  city  of  Cadiz  rising  out  of  the  blue 
Mediterranean?  Let  us  find  the  road  again.  And  tell 
me  the  history  of  each  villa." 

"Do  you  see  the  second  villa  from  the  pink  one?  There 
Prince  Armonte  committed  a  crime  similar  to  one  by  a 
member  of  the  Borgia  family  along  the  shores  of  Lake 
Como.  He  poisoned  his  wife,  of  whom  he  was  insanely 
jealous,  and  left  a  deadly  draught  fresh  upon  her  lips. 
Then  he  had  her  lover  informed  by  one  of  his  guards,  and 

111 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

he  came  by  midnight  to  kiss  the  lips  of  his  lady  for  the 
last  time.  He  sucked  the  poison  from  them,  and  died 
beside  her.  In  the  next  villa,  one  of  the  Carloses  of  Spain 
brought  a  beautiful  mistress,  afterward  stabbed  by  his 
brother,  who  in  turn  killed  the  king  in  a  duel  fought  for 
her.  But  around  that  pink  summer  palace,  the  most 
pathetic  memories  cling.  A  doge,  whom  I  know  you  ad- 
mire far  too  much  for  me  to  betray  his  name,  desired  the 
daughter  of  Count  Giuseppe  Mazza  who  had  built  his 
wife  this  lovely  home.  Giuseppe  was  a  Florentine,  but  he 
summered  here.  His  daughter  was  quite  a  celebrated 
beauty  and  was  betrothed  to  a  young  Florentine  nobleman 
at  the  time  the  doge  fell  in  love  with  her.  He  saw  her 
at  Murano  one  day  when  he  was  inspecting  the  glass- 
works, and  again  at  the  masqued  ball  during  the  Venetian 
carnival,  which,  as  you  know,  is  now  a  thing  of  the  past. 
He  had  her  watched  and  taken  by  night  to  the  ducal 
palace;  then  planned  keeping  her  captive  at  a  lonely  house 
in  a  small  canal,  with  a  shrew  for  guardian.  Sometimes 
at  four  in  the  morning,  sometimes  at  midnight,  she  was 
taken  gagged  to  him  in  his  apartments  in  the  palace.  This 
went  on  for  a  very  long  time.  Her  father,  Giuseppe 
Mazza,  crazed  by  her  disappearance,  offered  enormous 
rewards  for  her  recovery,  and  her  fiance  severed  all  con- 
nections with  the  family  who  had  caused  him  such  humilia- 
tion and  pain.  It  was  the  talk  of  the  Italian  ball-rooms 
of  the  day. 

"Isabella,  who  for  reasons  of  safety  was  always  con- 
ducted to  the  prison  of  the  palace,  and  then  led  across  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs  to  the  doge's  rooms,  was  unhappily  seen 
one  night,  by  an  enemy  of  the  duke.  Thereafter,  every 
night  he  watched  until  he  ascertained  without  any  possi- 

112 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

bility  of  mistake,  the  truth  of  his  suspicions;  and  upon  con- 
firming them,  informed  the  wife  of  the  doge  who  placed 
a  letter  cachee  in  the  fatal  box  demanding  the  head  of  the 
girl — quite  like  Salome — or  else  that  of  the  doge  him- 
self. The  latter,  terrorized  that  his  intrigue  had  become 
public  to  the  extent  of  demanding  the  death  of  his  mis- 
tress by  his  wife,  conceived  a  horrible  crime.  After  dwell- 
ing upon  the  solution  of  the  problem,  he  decided  that 
Isabella  should  come  that  very  night,  as  before,  doing 
nothing  to  countermand  orders  already  given  to  this  effect. 
So  the  poor  little  captive  came.  She  was  dragged  into  the 
prison,  from  that  awful  gondola  as  before,  up  the  stairs, 
across  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  just  the  same.  But  on  reach- 
ing the  other  side,  two  executioners  awaited  her,  and  off 
went  her  lovely  head  across  the  block.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  those  men,  forced  to  obey  their  master's 
orders,  shed  the  most  innocent  blood  that  Italy  has  ever 
known.  I  never  go  to  the  doge's  palace,  Mrs.  Van  Len- 
nep,  and  see  the  chill  cells,  dark  passages  and  beheading 
block  of  that  most  terrible  of  prisons,  but  I  think  of  a 
sweet  young  girl  being  dragged,  masked,  and  in  a  blue 
shawl,  ostensibly  to  the  arms  of  a  man  she  loathed,  but 
in  reality  to  a  perhaps  more  welcome  death." 

Dorris  did  not  speak.  They  were  nearing  Mira,  and 
the  streets  of  the  little  town  were  quite  distinct.  At  last 
she  broke  the  silence. 

"Signor  Cenari,  how  can  such  a  city  as  Venice  hide 
such  ghastly  crimes?  That  city,  beautiful  beyond  all 
dreamed-of  conceptions  of  beauty,  to  nurture  such  tragedy ! 
It  is  inconceivable,  incongruous.  To  think  of  the  beauty, 
the  stately  air,  of  the  doge's  palace,  with  its  sumptuous 
assembly-halls  and  immortal  paintings — to  think  the  very 

113 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

palace  containing  Tintoretto's  "Paradiso"  and  Veronese's 
"Marriage  of  Saint  Catherine"  should  have  held  such  dun- 
geons of  torture.  How  many  an  innocent  man  has  gone 
to  his  death  or  to  insanity  through  the  cruelties  of  these 
doges.  How  many  guilty  men  suffered  until  their  punish- 
ment became  injustice — the  Foscari,  Marino  Faliero  and 
scores  of  others.  And  in  that  city  I  point  to  over  there, 
that  fairy  city,  the  queen  of  the  seas!  But  I  love  her 
with  all  her  tales  of  debauchery  and  crime  and  love.  I 
love  her!" 

"Even  a  city  must  pay  the  price  of  beauty,  Mrs.  Van 
Lennep.  We  all  pay  for  our  endowments  or  for  what  is 
showered  upon  us,  as  well  as  for  what  we  take.  A  man 
pays  a  price;  a  woman  pays  a  price.  There  is  nothing 
in  all  the  world  worth  having,  nothing  in  the  world  worth 
the  choosing,  without  the  denial  of  something  equally 
great  or  greater.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  we  enjoy 
but  that  we  pay  a  penalty.  We  buy  all  we  have.  Ah,  but 
here  we  are  in  little  Mira,  poor,  dead  town!  Is  she  not 
sweet?" 

"And  now  you  must  show  me  Byron's  villa.  I  am 
glad  after  all  that  I  have  never  seen  it,  it  will  be  a  new 
pleasure.  Are  we  near  it?" 

"There  it  is,"  said  Cenari,  smiling,  as  he  pointed  to  a 
house  among  the  trees. 

"That  is  the  villa  of  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  the  place 
where  she  fled  with  her  lover,  in  defiance  of  her  father, 
the  memory  of  her  mother,  her  brother — her  husband. 
How  could  she  have  been  so  weak,  or  so  strong,  as  to 
have  come  here?" 

"Ah,  signora,  to  the  Italian  who  loves  as  she  loved, 
the  world,  its  conventions,  its  honours,  its  social  favours, 

114 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

mean  nothing — less  than  nothing.  She  came  with  her  hus- 
band's consent,  strange  as  it  sounds  to  tell  it;  and  her 
brother  came  prepared  to  kill  Byron,  but  such  was  the 
spell  the  poet  cast  that  after  five  minutes'  conversation, 
the  boy  melted — even  promised  to  help  them  in  every  way. 
The  love  Contessa  Teresa  bore  Byron  makes  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  romances  in  history.  He  must  have  been 
much  to  have  inspired  the  love  of  a  convent-bred  girl, 
newly  wed,  with  all  the  world  at  her  feet,  with  the  ideals 
she  must  have  had." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Signer  Cenari  ?  She  was  received 
socially,  owing  to  her  noble  birth  and  affection  for  such  a 
great  man." 

"I  was  thinking  about  the  fleeting  five  years  until  she 
lost  him;  of  his  death  away  from  her  when  she  was  but 
twenty-two.  Fancy  her  unutterable  grief,  so  young,  with 
her  romance  ended,  and  a  romance  that  meant  her  life;  to 
have  known  so  deep  an  emotion,  and  then  to  have  it  pass 
away,  into  nothingness,  into  memory,  with  a  long  life 
before  her  without  his  tenderness,  without  his  simple  un- 
derstanding. And  how  easy  to  forgive  that  liaison  when 
we  think  of  the  far  worse  life  it  lifted  him  from,  when  we 
know  it  bequeathed  to  him  the  first  perfect  happiness  he 
had  ever  known." 

"It  has  always  been  to  me  the  most  wonderful  love  of 
history,"  said  Dorris  softly.  "Somehow,  in  America  we 
women  seldom  find  it.  Perhaps  we  are  incapable  of  it. 
Shall  we  dismount  and  visit  our  villa?" 

Dorris  smiled. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  that  it  has 
been  turned  into  a  school.  Do  you  still  wish  to  inspect 
it?" 

115 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"No,  signore,  that  would  spoil  it  for  me.  Suppose  we 
ride  back.  Then  I  shall  have  seen  its  exterior  and  garden- 
walls.  I  can  always  dream  of  a  great  poet,  his  handsome 
face  turned  towards  a  young  girl  with  delicate  golden 
curls,  his  arm  linked  in  hers,  wandering  in  that  garden. 
Come,  turn." 

"Signora,"  demanded  Cenari,  after  an  interval,  "have 
you  quite  made  up  your  mind  that  you  will  not  sit  for  me  ? 
The  gold  room  is  in  readiness  for  you.  Won't  you  come?" 

"Pray  how  can  you  work  in  such  a  small  room?  I 
thought  it  was  a  joke,  a  pretty  compliment.  You  did  not 
mean  it?" 

"Not  mean  it!  I  have  the  candles  ready  to  light  up 
your  face.  It  will  be  original  at  least" — 

"If  I  do  not  come,"  she  laughed.  "And  if  I  do  come, 
will  you  entitle  the  portrait  'A  Harmony — in  the  Gold 
Room'?" 

"Whatever  I  may  call  it,  it  would  be  harmonious,  if 
I  were  allowed  to  keep  my  promise  and  repeat  that  stanza 
to  you." 

Dorris  felt  the  confusion  of  the  colour  which  crept  into 
her  face,  and  was  irritated  that  this  man  should  insist  upon 
embarrassing  her  with  references  which  were  unpleasant, 
unwelcome.  She  asked  herself  whether  this  were  offense 
which  was  making  her  pulses  leap  to  be  near  him. 

"Signore,  my  saddle  is  uncomfortable,  and  we  have  got 
to  hurry  back.  Cordelia  will  be  anxious  if  I  am  late." 

Accordingly,  they  set  their  horses  to  a  gallop  down  the 
dusty  road,  Dorris  cruelly  lashing  the  sorrel  she  rode, 
until  she  awakened  to  the  fact  that  she  had  drawn  blood. 
What  was  the  matter  with  her  that  a  tempest  of  feeling 
should  sweep  her  common  sense  from  its  moorings?  But 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

that  something  in  the  presence  of  this  man  had  maddened 
her,  she  knew,  as  she  went  on  reckless,  leaving  him  far 
behind.  It  was  her  horse  that  was  impelled  to  stop ;  bring- 
ing her  up  to  the  entrance  to  a  footpath  leading  to  a  copse, 
she  was  thrown  suddenly  forward  in  her  saddle,  and  when 
Cenari  rode  up,  she  was  congratulating  herself  that  she 
had  regained  her  seat. 

"Bad  horsemanship — or  womanship,  eh,  Marches  a?  I 
almost  thought  you  were  running  away  from  me." 

"So  I  was,"  and  both  laughed,  "though  for  the  matter 
of  that,  I  have  spells  when  I  feel  I  must  ride  to  death.  I 
must  scream,  get  somewhere — do  something." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  get  somewhere  and  do  some- 
thing ?  It's  the  energy  of  youth.  One  of  these  days,  you'll 
wake  up  and  find  it  gone." 

"It  has  come  over  me  quite  lately,  the  last  two  or  three 
months.  If  it  is  nerves,  the  fury  is  in  nerves  to  urge  me 
on  to  death.  I  could  have  ridden  straight  into  the  jaws 
of  the  Inferno.  And  now  I  am  as  neutral  as  sunset  tints 
in  Brookline," 

As  she  spoke  she  started  and  looked  at  him  with  the  air 
of  one  newly  conscious.  "Have  I  talked  a  great  deal  of 
nonsense?"  she  asked. 

"You  looked  as  bizarre  as  the  costume  of" — 

"Oh,  that  makes  me  think!  Who  wore  that  bizarre 
costume  and  sat  near  us  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  the  other 
night?  She  seemed  to  know  you." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  he  laughed — but  with  a 
slight  restraint. 

"To  whom  do  you  refer,  Marchesa?" 

"The  lady  who  sat  at  the  table  next  to  us,  and  bowed," 
she  insisted.  "I  want  to  know  who  it  was." 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Bowed?  Did  I  return  it?"  he  queried,  as  if  puzzled. 
"I  don't  remember  seeing  any  one  I  knew." 

Dorris  rode  on  ahead,  watching  the  delicate  bends  of 
the  river  as  it  flowed  silently  and  peacefully  towards  its 
mother,  the  Adriatic,  and  thinking  of  Cenari's  evasive 
reply.  She  was  bewildered  by  the  certainty  that  he  was 
playing  false  in  some  way,  and  yet,  why?  False  to  her, 
indeed  ?  She  laughed. 

"Why  do  I  care  if  he  is  treacherous  and  untruthful?" 
she  mused.  "What  is  he  to  me?  Oh !  why  do  I  care?" 


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The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

What  is  the  love  of  men  that  women  seek  it  ? 
In  its  beginning  pale  with  cruelty, 
But  having  sipped  of  beauty,  negligent 
And  full  of  langour  and  distaste. 

— Marpessa. 

The  peach-blossoms  had  disappeared  in  the  Colbrizzi 
Garden,  but  in  their  stead,  luxurious  red  roses  had  sprung 
into  fragrant  bloom.  The  fountain  played  gracefully  in 
the  shadows  cast  by  the  trees.  The  day  after  Mrs.  Van 
Lennep  and  Signer  Cenari  had  ridden  to  Mira  along  the 
Brenta  was  very  warm. 

Lady  Blanchard,  two  Pomeranians  in  her  lap,  was 
seated  on  the  marble  bench  opposite  the  fountain,  while 
facing  her  was  Signer  Cenari  in  a  Scheveningen  chair. 

"Well,"  he  was  saying,  "if  you  do  not  get  to  London 
this  season,  it  will  be  the  very  first  one  since  you  became 
a  bride  at  St.  George's.  I  can  see  a  lot  of  disconsolate 
old  young  girls  ready  to  die  in  earnest  without  Lady 
Blanchard's  informal  dances,  the  only  ones  at  which  they 
ever  get  partners.  Veda  Lanham  will  weep  quarts  of 
tears.  Mary  Fitzhugh  will  put  her  debut  off  another 
season.  She  will  then  be  twenty-three,  I  believe.  Lady 
Caroline  Arnesby  will  go  to  nothing.  Oh,  Viola,  how  can 
you  be  so  cruel  ?  I  am  glad,  however,  that  we  are  to  have 
your  society  a  bit  longer.  It  will  be  gayer,  more  amusing 
here,  and  how  do  those  pups  like  the  idea?  Vixen  is 
thoroughly  disgusted,  I  am  sure;  but  do  give  me  some  tea, 
Viola.  I  must  have  something." 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Learn  patience,  Paolo,  and  it  will  put  you  to  better 
advantage.  Here  comes  James  now.  Put  the  tray  on  the 
table,  James,  and  bring  some  toasted  brioches.  I  do  not 
care  for  this  cake.  Paolo,  my  servants  never  treat  me 
with  the  right  respect  on  the  continent.  Why  do  you  sup- 
pose it  is?" 

"Oh,  they're  holiday  making,  you  know.  Take  myself 
for  example.  What  work  do  I  accomplish  in  Venice? 
Contrast  it  with  what  I  do  in  Rome.  Think  of  the  time 
I  have  been  here  with  not  one  portrait  the  result." 

"Oh,  Paolo,  dear,  don't  become  like  Sir  Thomas  Law- 
rence, a  mere  fashionable  dandy.  Please  do  not  prostitute 
your  art.  You  really  ought  to  work.  Your  portraits  have 
entirely  lost  their  character  value.  The  whole  tone  of 
them  will  degenerate ;  in  fact,  your  work  for  the  past  five 
years  has  not  been  up  to  what  it  was  before." 

"But,  Viola,  you  loved  me  before,"  he  remarked  sa- 
tirically. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Paolo.  I  never  was  quite  as  fond 
of  you  as  I  am  now.  Really." 

"Then  is  that  what  makes  you  shadow  me?" 

"I  have  always  given  you  your  liberty,  Paolo,  you  know 
that.  I  have  never  watched  you.  Why?  Are  you  mis- 
behaving now?  Do  you  see  me  coming  after  you  with 
the  gun  I  use  on  the  Scotch  moors?" 

"Evasive  Viola !  I'm  not  in  the  least  angry.  Why 
do  you  shadow  me?" 

"But,  Paolo,  I  don't,"  she  protested.  "I  assure  you, 
you  have  more  liberty  than  ever.  By  the  way,  aren't  you 
completely  in  love  with  Mrs.  Van  Lennep?  I  think  her 
adorable.  I  am  sure  your  taste  is  abominable  when  it 
prefers  my  society  to  hers." 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Well,  dear,  youth  is  not  the  only  charm  in  the  world. 
It  would  be  unwise  and  unkind  to  you  were  I  to  tell  you 
that  she  is  not  beautiful.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  never 
seen  a  face  that  impressed  me  more." 

"But,  Paolo,  youth  is  a  wonderful  thing,  almost  as  won- 
derful as  beauty.  My  cousin  used  to  say  to  me  when  she 
had  become  fat  and  forty,  'I  would  give  you  my  face  for 
your  youth,'  and  she  was  a  great  beauty." 

"  'O,  Primavera !     Gioventu  dell'  anno — 
O,  Gioventu !    Primavera  della  vita,' " 

recited  Paolo,  raising  his  hand  and  smiling.  "Yes,  Viola," 
he  said,  "youth  is  a  glorious,  blind,  happy,  stupid  day.  It 
is  the  time  to  believe  in  women;  to  have  a  beau  ideal;  to 
love  but  one !  We  ride  at  six  and  chase  the  hounds  all 
day,  enthusiastic,  the  red  blood  rushing  like  wildfire 
through  our  veins-.  We  come  back  and  dance  at  the  hunt- 
ball  till  dawn.  Then  we  go  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep  I 
For  we  dream  of  a  pretty  young  girl,  and  the  look  in  her 
eyes,  the  smile  on  her  lips.  Ah,  youth,  youth !  Sometimes 
I  feel  I  would  give  the  world  to  be  a  boy  again,  yet  I  am 
happier  now.  What  hurts  in  getting  older,  Viola,  is  disap- 
pointment, and  the  knowledge  that  man  is  but  a  feeble  slave 
of  destiny  or  power,  not  the  creature  of  a  playground  where 
we  laugh  and  kiss.  But  that  is  not  what  I  came  to  say." 

Viola  put  her  teacup  on  the  table,  and  looked  question- 
ingly  at  her  guest. 

"Tea,  Paolo?" 

"Thank  you,  no  more,"  he  replied.  "Viola,  if  you  wish 
to  shadow  me,  why  don't  you  procure  a  professional  de- 
tective? Ventriss  Jumeau  does  make  blunders.  She  lets 
one  know,  or  if  not  know,  feel  she  is  following  one.  Why, 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

even  Mrs.  Gunter  noticed  a  mystery  about  her.  Of  course 
Mrs.  Van  Lennep  is  such  a  baby  she  remarked  nothing," 
he  went  on  with  mendacity.  "Ventriss  sat  next  us,  and 
alone,  mind  you,  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  pursued  at  an 
unreasonable  nearness  all  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  a 
covered  gondola,  which  is  unheard  of  on  a  beautiful 
night.  I  have  seen  her  several  times  in  the  same 
funereal  boat.  But  all  of  this  is  a  bore  to  you,  for  you 
know  it.  It  is  absurd,  Viola.  .You  are  worth  more 
than  that." 

Signor  Cenari  assumed  a  graceful  pose,  and  stared  at 
Lady  Blanchard,  who  flushed  and  talked  to  Vixen: — 

"Pup,  it's  miserable  that  this  man  you  have  lavished 
with  affection  will  believe  such  things  of  you,  isn't  it, 
Vixen?  Yes,  that's  it.  You  possess  the  rare  quality  of 
sympathy,  Vix,  and  Paolo, — he  even  insults  you." 

"I  don't  insult,  Viola.  I  only  want  to  know  your  mo- 
tives; they  or  it,  singular  or  plural,  must  be  rather  com- 
plex." 

"They  are  quite  simplex,  I  assure  you,"  laughed  Lady 
Blanchard.  "You  see,  Paolo,  you're  the  only  thing  in  the 
world  I  care  for.  I  have  loved  you  so  long  that 
I  think  you  owe  me  some  fidelity." 

She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  Vixen  jumped  to 
the  ground  and  walked  leisurely  to  the  fountain's  brink 
where  he  took  a  refreshing  drink. 

"Yes,  Paolo,  love  drives  a  woman  to  madness.  I  have 
never  gotten  tired.  I  have  loved  you  more  as  each  summer 
came  and  went,  though  I  feel  no  longer  that  emotion  that 
made  my  pulses  sing,  my  heart  beat,  and  my  cheeks  to  pale 
at  sight  of  you.  No,  Paolo,  believe  me.  It  is  the  love 
a  woman  bears  a  man  after  years  of  companionship." 

122 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Viola,  you  speak  as  if  I  had  been  your  only  love.  Don't 
try  to  make  me  think — what  of  young  Sir  Russell  Drew  ? 
He  was  your  husband's  friend  in  the  early  days,  was  he 
not  ?  You  have  an  unretentive  memory,  I  fear.  Did  you 
really  forget  you  had  told  me  of  him?" 

"Oh,  Paolo,  how  cruel  you  are.  How  insufferably  cruel 
you  are.  Once  you  were  so  tender,  you  were  all  a  woman 
could  have  desired.  Paolo,  I  see  now  my  mistake  in  hav- 
ing trusted  you.  I  am  the  vanquished,  you  are  the  victor. 
I  have  lost  my  youth  and  the  little  charm  that  accompanied 
it.  You  have  developed  into  a  great  genius,  and  you  look 
to  the  soft  curves  and  bloom  of  two-and-twenty." 

"Nineteen,  to  be  correct,  Viola,"  he  smiled. 

"How  you  hurt  me." 

There  was  a  hardness  in  her  eyes. 

"Viola,  dear,  dear  Viola !  has  my  humour  offended  you  ? 
But  in  such  weather  as  this,  one  must  laugh.  Listen,  Viola, 
it  is  not  that  I  have  ceased  loving  you,  but  that  I  am  treach- 
erous and  unfaithful.  The  romance  is  over.  I  loved 
you.  How  much,  you  yourself  know.  Moreover,  I  loved 
your  soft  curves  and  youthful  bloom  at  two-and-twenty." 

He  smiled.  "It  might  have  been  a  little  older  than  that. 
We  have  had  our  romance.  It  is  ended, — dead.  You  are 
mourning  a  ruin,  Viola.  You  say,  even  you,  that  your 
pulse  no  longer  sings,  that  the  blood  in  your  veins  no  longer 
throbs,  that  your  cheeks  no  longer  pale  at  sight  of  me. 
Well,  that  in  itself  was  love.  We  have  evolved  from 
it  into  friendship,  a  beautiful  friendship  far  higher 
than  the  other,  but  a  woman  is  never  content  with 
this.  She  clings  to  the  last  thread  of  her  romance, 
tries  to  elongate  it  as  it  were,  refuses  to  leave  it  in  a 
man's  mind  as  a  dream  of  bygone  stolen  kisses,  of  a  fra- 

123 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

grant  perfume,  a  subtlety  of  youth,  a  'scent  of  the  roses 
that  hangs  round  it  still.'  No,  she  clings  and  clings 
and  clings;  it  has  been  truly  said  that  a  woman's  memory 
is  awful.  If  one  thread  breaks  she  grasps  another,  and  so 
it  goes;  then  if  it  all  fails,  threads  and  perfumes  and  kisses, 
she  regards  her  life  and  all  its  hopes  as  ended.  Viola, 
when  love  vanished,  you  should  have  left  that  sweetness 
for  both  of  us  which  we  now  shall  never  feel.  We  should 
never  even  have  spoken  of  it.  Of  what  are  you  com- 
plaining? Haven't  you  lived,  and  loved,  and  enjoyed? 
How  many  women  have?  And  have  you  not  been  loved 
in  return  ?  Yet  you  won't  be  happy  with  the  memory  of  it. 
You  must  try  to  rehash  it  in  a  cheap  way  when  it  is  gone. 
You  won't  accept  the  new  hope  of  a  true  friendship  with 
the  man  you  once  loved.  You  sentimentalize  and  believe 
yourself  the  heroine  of  a  tragedy.  It  is  self-pity.  Worse 
than  all,  it  is  inartistic! 

Cenari  rose  and  walked  about  the  garden,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets. 

"Yes,  Paolo,  I  know  your  type;  it  is  cruel,  cruel.  It 
exacts  the  all  a  woman  can  give,  and  laughs  at  her  after. 
I  am  sorry  to  have  displeased  you,  Paolo,  but  I  am  human. 
I  was  jealous  but  it  was  only  love  that  prompted  it.  Go 
to  her.  Spoil  her  life  as  you  have  spoiled  mine !" 

"Viola,  Viola,  you  have  misunderstood  all.  You  are 
rather  melodramatic." 

But  Lady  Blanchard  did  not  hear.  She  ran  across  the 
garden  into  the  court,  the  Pomeranians  at  her  heels. 

Cenari  took  up  hat  and  coat,  made  a  turn  of  the  gar- 
den, picked  a  rose,  and  left  the  Colbrizzi  palace. 


124 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XV. 

I  suoi  pensieri  in  lui  dormir  non  ponno. 

— "Gerusalemme  Liberata."    Canto  I.  Tasso. 

One  morning  while  Cordelia  and  Dorris  were  taking 
rather  late  coffee  and  rolls  in  the  marble  bath,  Maria  en- 
tered with  a  packet  of  letters. 

"And  only  one  in  the  whole  lot  for  you,  Dorris,"  said 
her  friend  gaily,  as  she  handed  it  over.  "I  hope  you  will 
read,  mark,  and  inwardly  digest  your  husband's  forbear- 
ance and  affection." 

Dorris  put  the  envelope,  yet  unopened,  on  the  marble 
slab,  and  went  on  drinking  her  coffee.  It  was  not  until 
some  minutes  had  passed  and  Cordelia  had  turned  inquir- 
ingly from  the  perusal  of  her  own  mail,  that  Dorris  seemed 
to  come  out  of  a  dream. 

She  sighed. 

"Read  it  for  me,  Cordy,  that's  a  dear,"  she  said. 

Her  friend  eyed  her  curiously,  and  deigned  no  reply. 

"I  don't  feel  like  opening  letters,"  the  girl  went  on, 
"much  less  like  reading  them.  Besides,  I  know  every  word 
in  it.  I  will  tell  you  before  I  break  the  seal.  Listen  1  He 
wants  me  to  return  to  America  at  once,  in  summer — in 
summer,  mind  you.  But  he  is  utterly  incorrigible.  He  is 
not  coming  here.  His  family  are  beginning  to  be  very 
insistent.  It  looks  bad  for  both  of  us,  and  particularly  so 
forme.  Now!" 

She  tore  the  letter  open,  and  smiled  cynically  as  she 
read  it. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Just  as  I  thought,"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  hasty  perusal. 
"Harry  couldn't  be  original,  even  if  it  would  put  him  on 
the  right  side  of  the  stock-market.  You  see  I've  got 
down  one  high-sounding  commercial  phrase  a  la  dutiful 
wife." 

"Dorris,  please,  for  mercy's  sake !  stop  ridiculing  your 
husband.  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  and,  Dorris,  I  will  not 
allow  it,  not  in  my  presence.  It  is  not  decent." 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"You  won't  allow  it.  You?  Indeed,  and  what  have 
you  to  do  with  my  affairs?  Why,  you're  really  getting  as 
tiresome  as  the  whole  Van  Lennep  family." 

"You  must  remember,  Dorris,"  said  Cordelia  severely, 
"that  it  is  not  my  fault  that  you  should  have  become  nearly 
enough  related  to  the  Van  Lenneps  to  make  the  compari- 
son odious." 

"Well,  you  are  very  provoking  at  times;  it  is  not  that  I 
class  you  with  them,  but  imagine  leaving  this  City  Beau- 
tiful at  the  call" — 

"Of  duty,  Dorris." 

"Duty,  d-u-t-y.  That  ugly  word.  It  ought  to  be  spelled 
with  a  cipher.  It  isn't  in  my  vocabulary,  anyway.  You 
are  eternally  asking  why  I  married  Harry.  As  if  I  knew 
any  more  than  you  do.  I  might  have  foreseen  it.  But 
to  have  you  going  in  their  wake  is  worse  than  all,  to  have 
you  getting  rigid,  holding  middle-class  ideas, — and  it's 
been  that  way  ever  since  you  came.  When  Daddy  was 
with  us,  we  got  on  very  well.  But  you're  wearing  me  to 
a  cinder,  and  have,  ever  since  you  came.  The  Van  Len- 
neps got  hold  of  you,  and  changed  you  in  an  hour.  And 
I  hate  it,  I  tell  you,  I  won't  have  it.  This  eternal  prating 
will  drive  me  mad.  You  used  to  be  such  a  jolly  girl.  The 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

years  between  us  didn't  count  at  all.  You  were  always 
ready  for  a  jest  or  a  lark,  and  now  all  you  talk  about 
is  duty  and  honour  and  wifely  fidelity.  Why,  I  can't 
even  spell  the  words,  I  tell  you  I" 

Cordelia  looked  sadly  through  gathering  tears. 

"Dorris,  I  am  not  going  to  make  my  appeal  to  you  on 
the  strength  of  my  love;  that  would  be  what  you  call  bro- 
midic  with  a  vengeance — considering  the  tone  you  have 
just  taken.  But  whether  we  part  here  and  now,  remem- 
ber this:  You  are  a  wife,  you  owe  something  to  yourself  if 
not  to  your  husband  and  to  the  world;  and  at  the  price  of 
never  seeing  you  again  after  this  hour,  I  would  save  you 
from  the  fate  of,  of — something  you  mentioned  as  having 
been  spoken  of  by  Mr.  Barker, — calamity" 

Dorris's  eyes  flashed  lightnings. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  give  me  some  peace !  Who  is  try- 
ing to  make  matters  worse  for  me  ?  Answer  me  that.  If 
it  is  not  you,  who  is  it?  You  put  this  man  Cenari  before 
me  morning,  noon  and  night.  It  is  not  the  less  irritating 
because  you  do  not  speak  his  name.  You  are  forever 
hinting  that  I  am  in  love  with  him,  until  you  have  almost 
made  me  think  so  myself." 

Cordelia  felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  heart  as  she  half 
staggered  to  her  feet,  and  Dorris  went  on : — 

"As  for  Mr.  Barker,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  him,  or 
any  poky,  preachy  people.  Why  should  I  be  bothered 
with  that  sort  of  thing?  You  go  back  to  America;  then 
perhaps  I  can  sleep  o'  nights." 

"Dorris,  you  are  in  no  condition  to  be  left  alone." 

"Dreadfully  nervous,  am  I?  Irresponsible?  But  it 
has  been  only  since  you  came.  I  was  all  right  before. 
And  trot  back  now,  that's  a  dear,  and  persuade  Harry  to 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

divorce  me  for  desertion.  Why  not?  It's  your  duty  to 
put  an  end  to  my  misery — duty,  I  tell  you.  You're  really 
to  blame  for  my  marriage,  Cordelia,  because  you  know 
when  I  am  advised  not  to  do  a  thing,  that  makes  me  want 
to  do  it.  And  you  knew  that  when  you  urged  me  to  wait 
awhile  and,  and — ha,  ha!" 

Dorris  upset  her  coffee-cup  which  smashed  into  a  hun- 
dred fragments  against  the  smoothness  of  the  marble 
basin,  as  she  rushed  past  her  friend  into  her  bedroom. 

Cordelia  stood  tense,  listening  to  sobs.  Never  since 
the  morning  of  her  husband's  death  had  such  anguish 
weighed  upon  her. 

"And  this  is  what  beauty  does  for  women,"  she  thought 
bitterly.  "No  wonder  men  demand  it  in  us;  it  makes  us 
easy  prey!  Love  and  beauty,  forsooth,"  her  eyes  wan- 
dered cynically  to  the  Venus  in  the  corner,  "what  sins 
you  would  have  to  answer  for  if  you  were  not  carved  out 
of  marble.  Prayers  to  this  goddess  ?  Why  you  rise  daily 
from  the  froth  of  the  sea — you  are  the  froth  of  life.  See 
what  you  have  done  to  this  poor  child  of  mine  who  loves 
and  does  not  even  know  it?  She  is  miserable,  and  she 
does  not  know  why,  but  you  and  I  know,  and  I  can  no 
more  alter  the  course  of  this  tempest  which  will  blight 
the  life  about  me  than  can  you." 

Meanwhile  Dorris  lay  upon  her  couch  tossing  in  half- 
wakeful  dreams.  Rest,  rest,  rest!  that  was  it,  only  she 
couldn't  make  it  stop.  And  over  her  floated  a  mirror, 
now  reflecting  her  face  as  wizen  and  aged,  now  as  gro- 
tesquely large  and  youthful,  but  with  little  lines  gradually 
deepening  like  rivers,  whose  waters  were  her  own  choking 
tears.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  she  were  hunting  for  a  key, 
to  hide  away  this  mirror,  somewhere,  so  that  prophecies 

128 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

would  not  make  the  room  go  round  and  round  and  round 
forever. 

And  she  was  talking  to  Cordelia,  too — not  asking  her 
forgiveness  but  feeling  it  rush  through  her  in  generous 
gusts. 

When  she  tried  to  localize  her  movements,  she  found 
herself  putting  a  key  into  a  door  of  a  room  strangely 
familiar.  She  stopped  suddenly  short  in  bewilderment. 
Three  doors  opened  off  the  rotunda  at  the  head  of  the 
staircase,  and  she  stood  at  the  center  one. 

Her  pale  face  was  a  contortion,  as  she  battled  with  the 
key,  and  the  door  yielded  at  last.  She  was  in  the  room 
on  the  second  floor,  which  had  been  her  father's  two 
years  since.  And  what  had  brought  her  here?  Etchings? 

She  was  recovering  enough  to  appreciate  how  ridiculous 
it  all  was — her  working  herself  into  such  a  state  that  she 
did  not  know  whether  she  waked  or  slept.  The  musty 
smell  of  the  long  unused  room  was  in  her  nostrils,  and 
she  hurried  to  throw  open  the  windows.  Then  the  sense 
of  unreality  returned  as  she  looked  at  the  dust  on  chair 
and  dresser.  Except  for  the  memories  that  clung  to  it, 
however,  it  was  just  as  she  had  seen  it  last.  Was  it  the 
memories  that  made  it  seem  unreal,  so  poignantly  in  con- 
trast with  what  she  felt  to-day? 

That  last  time  in  this  room  when  she  had  brought  in 
her  father's  breakfast, — how  tender  that  interview  had 
been,  and  what  a  change  two  years  had  made.  There 
was  the  bed  beside  which  she  had  sat,  in  front  of  which 
she  now  instinctively  knelt.  And  she  prayed — to  Jehovah 
or  to  Jove?  She  called  upon  no  name,  but  when  she  rose, 
a  soft  answer  came — and  it  was  peace.  She  walked  stealth- 
ily about  the  room,  looking  earnestly  at  the  things  made 

129 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

sacred  by  his  touch,  since  then  locked  up  as  in  a  precious 
casket. 

She  had  come  here  for  something, — ah !  the  etchings  she 
had  left  here  two  summers  ago.  She  wanted  them — for 
what?  Suddenly  she  remembered:  it  was  to  show  Cenari. 

In  the  room  her  maid  Susan  had  occupied  she  found  a 
vial  grimy  with  dust.  Had  it  once  contained  ether?  She 
picked  it  up  twice  and  set  it  down  again;  then  wandered 
about  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  returned  to  tuck  it  in  the 
folds  of  her  gown.  In  the  narrow  passage  leading  to  a 
door  on  the  rotunda,  she  paused  before  a  frame  set  in 
intaglio  in  the  wall.  She  had  a  dim  recollection  of  some- 
thing uncanny  in  connection  with  it,  and  vaguely  con- 
nected it  with  dusty  bottles  and  secret  vials.  She  would 
ask  Bonti.  She  stepped  back  to  close  the  windows,  and 
her  search  for  the  etchings  having  been  in  vain,  went  out 
and  down  the  stairs,  feeling  the  chill  of  the  marble  for 
the  first  time  through  thin  slippers. 

Once  in  her  room,  the  contents  of  the  vial  became  an 
obsession.  What  should  she  do  with  it?  She  had  no 
earthly  use  for  it.  She  stepped  out  into  the  bath,  and  left 
it  there,  as  if  she  had  hidden  a  guilty  fear. 

Then  she  combed  out  the  long  tresses  of  her  hair,  read 
a  bit  in  a  tiresome  novel,  sang  softly  to  herself,  and  settled 
herself  to  answer  Harry's  letter. 

Cordelia's  knock  at  length  sounded  upon  her  door,  and 
Cordelia's  voice  was  inquiring. 

"I'm  feeling  better,"  was  Dorris's  reply,  "but  I  don't 
think  I'll  keep  that  engagement.  I  feel  more  like  calling 
upon  Lady  Blanchard.  What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Drift,  Dorris,"  came  Cordelia's  voice  through  the 
closed  doorway;  "drift  all  afternoon." 

130 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Then  would  you  mind  drifting  to  Signer  Cenari's 
studio  to  let  him  know  I'll  sit  to-morrow?" 

"You  are  better,  Dorris,  dear,  after  all?"  was  the 
answer.  "Of  course  I  will  do  anything  you  say." 

Dorris  was  received  in  the  Colbrizzi  Garden  where 
Signor  Pavolo  also  greeted  her. 

"How  very,  very  good  of  you  to  come,"  was  Lady 
Blanchard's  welcome.  "I  really  never  thought  you  would 
call  upon  such  an  old  lady." 

"Little  girls  can  be  polite  now  and  then,  Lady  Blanch- 
ard,  to  very  old  people." 

"And  both  of  us  coming  at  one  hour,  Mrs.  Van  Len- 
nep,"  put  in  Signor  Pavolo,  "will  relieve  me  of  the  burden 
of  discussing  alone  with  Lady  Blanchard  an  impossible 
book  where  a  man  gets  the  worst  of  it." 

"And  the  author,"  demanded  Dorris,  "who,  pray, 
would  dare  to  be  so  true  to  life?" 

They  all  laughed. 

"Well,  really,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  Lady  Blanchard 
cried,  "it  is  strange  that  the  woman  always  has  to  pay  a 
higher  price  than  the  man.  That  is  one  respect  where 
fiction  is  usually  veracious." 

"Does  a  woman  always,  Lady  Blanchard,  do  you 
think?" 

"I  am  afraid  she  does." 

"Well,  you  are  safe  in  saying  so,  because  one  can  see 
that  experience  has  not  blighted  you." 

Signor  Pavolo  shot  a  quick  glance  of  astonishment  from 
Lady  Blanchard  to  Mrs.  Van  Lennep. 

"Oh,  I  have  read  about  it  in  books.  Will  you  take  a 
lump  of  sugar  in  your  tea?"  Lady  Blanchard's  tone  was 
suave. 

131 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Lady  Viola,  do  come  to  see  Mrs.  Gunter  and  me.  Our 
palace  is  of  a  piece  with  dreams,  and  we  have  a  garden 
almost  as  charming  as  this.  We  cannot  quite  keep  pace 
with  the  Colbrizzi,  though." 

"The  Spechio-Torni  ?  Really,  I  should  be  afraid  to 
live  in  it.  Strange  stories  are  centered  in  its  history." 

As  Dorris  left  the  palace,  she  was  embarrassed  by  a 
sense  of  having  failed — in  what?  Why  did  Signer  Pavolo 
look  so  strangely  over  her  head  to  Lady  Blanchard  more 
than  once?  Was  she  deficient  in  social  grace,  since  this 
array  of  moods  weighed  upon  her? 

Again  that  night  came  on  restlessness.  She  tried  various 
aids  to  sleep,  sheep  vaulting  a  country-stile  one  after  the 
other,  one  and  two  and  three,  and  back  again.  Women 
who  are  troubled  with  insomnia  get  old  and  withered  be- 
fore their  time;  they  lose  their  bloom.  Susan  once  had 
told  her  something  about  drops  on  a  handkerchief.  Drops 
of  ether?  "Sprinkle  them  on  like  cologne,"  recurred  the 
directions,  "put  it  over  your  face  and  breathe  deep,  deep." 

"But  suppose  I  never  awake?"  whispered  Caution. 
"Ah,  but  you  will,  you  will,"  insisted  Susan  who  was  off 
beyond  the  seas. 

In  a  moment,  Dorris  was  sitting  upright.  What  about 
the  contents  of  the  vial  she  had  brought  downstairs? 
Then  she  fell  back  upon  her  pillows.  But  why  had  she 
been  impelled  to  bring  that  particular  thing  away  from  the 
rooms  where  her  father  had  been?  Had  his  spirit  sent 
her  up  there?  She  would  see. 

She  lighted  a  candle  and  crept  toward  the  door,  going 
almost  eagerly  into  the  marble  bath.  Her  feet  were  cold 
on  the  stones,  and  the  candle  cast  a  glare  upon  the  very 
corner  where  she  had  left  that  vial.  It  was  not  there! 

132 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

She  stood  still,  vacantly  staring  down  into  the  sunken 
bath,  the  candle  flare  terrifying  her  into  silence.  Had  she 
come  afterward  and  taken  it  away?  Cordelia  never  came 
in  here  after  early  morning. 

She  walked  back  into  her  room,  trying  to  remember 
that  she  had  herself  taken  it.  It  was  uncanny  to  have  it 
disappear  like  that,  after  she  seemed  to  have  been  sent 
upstairs  to  fetch  it — at  least  after  she  had  acted  upon  the 
impulse  to  bring  it  from  that  room. 

The  desire  for  sleep,  for  some  form  of  unconsciousness 
that  would  still  the  beating  in  her  temples,  quiet  the 
anguish  in  her  heart,  murder  this  accusing  conscience  which 
yet  had  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  itself — grew 
upon  her. 

What  was  it  that  had  suddenly  maddened  her  that  day 
on  horseback  when  she  lashed  the  poor  animal  in  her 
flight  from  Cenari  ?  She  was  reaching  upward — for  help, 
for  peace — but  her  arms  were  so  tired.  And  there  Cor- 
delia slept  so  peacefully  before  her — in  her  bedroom! 
Why  had  she  come  in  here?  She  was  choking  with  the 
mustiness,  strangling  with  the  fumes  of — ether!  She 
rushed  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  tugged  at  it,  awakening 
Cordelia  with  her  screams.  The  older  woman  sprang  out 
of  bed,  and  lifted"  the  slender  girl  from  the  floor  where  she 
had  fallen  in  a  faint. 


133 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

And  who  was  I,  to  resist,  withstand 

That  charm  of  fragrant  gloom? 
A  summer  night  has  a  thousand  powers 

Of  scent  and  stars  and  bloom — 
Forgive  me  in  that  my  errant  hand 

Caressed  your  silken  hair; 
Oh,  lay  the  blame  on  the  jasmine  flowers 

You  know  how  sweet  they  were. 

— Stars  of  the  Desert. 

The  next  day  Cordelia  and  Dorris  went  to  Paolo  Cen- 
ari's  studio  for  the  girl's  first  sitting.  At  the  painter's  re- 
quest, she  brought  with  her  the  gown  she  had  worn  at 
Lady  Blanchard's  dinner.  To  complete  the  sketch  begun, 
he  seated  Dorris  in  an  old  Venetian  chair  near  the  win- 
dows, reserving  the  effect  of  the  gold  tapestries  till  the 
time  he  should  mix  his  colours.  He  was  rather  distrait, 
she  thought — indeed,  hardly  cordial.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
he  had  not  seriously  thought  to  have  her  come  to-day,  and 
was  annoyed.  Now  and  then,  she  looked  wonderingly 
out  upon  the  garden,  or  at  Cordelia. 

"Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  he  would  say  at  such 
times,  "but  you  have  quite  changed  your  pose.  May  I 
not  ask  you  to  keep  your  head  turned?  Ah,  that  is  better. 
Now  we  shall  do  nicely." 

She  found  herself  yielding  with  ease  to  his  commands, 
though  he  spoke  to  her  more  than  once  with  what  seemed 
to  her  altogether  unnecessary  stiffness. 

This  went  on  for  two  hours — he  commanding  in  a 
severe,  professional  way,  and  she  alternately  acquiescing 

134 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

and  relaxing;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  she  walked  de- 
lightedly about  the  room  upon  a  tour  of  inspection. 

"Where  did  you  get  those  censers?"  she  demanded. 

Cenari  merely  glanced  up  and  smiled. 

"Signore,  I  asked  you  a  question,"  she  said  playfully. 

"And  I  was  too  absent-minded  to  know  what  it  was,  I 
presume,"  he  returned. 

"I  was  admiring  your  censers." 

"The  censers?  Oh,  yes!  They  were  given  to  me  in 
Damascus  long,  long  ago  when  I  was  a  year  or  two  older 
than  you,  perhaps.  Have  pity  on  my  years,  and  don't 
force  me  into  detail." 

"But  the  torches  and  that  splendid  tiger-skin." 

Cenari  was  busy  screening  a  canvas. 

"Signore,  please  tell  me  about  the  torches  and  the  tiger- 
skin.  It  looks  like  that  other  Paul's  original !" 

"What  is  that?"  He  was  coming  toward  her.  "Oh, 
yes!  The  torches  were  here  in  the  palace  when  I  came 
and  have  been  for  centuries.  The  tiger  was  shot  by  Prince 
Borni  of  Rome  against  whose  ancestress  you  have  some- 
thing of  a  grudge.  Rather  fine,  is  it  not?  I  have  been 
offered  ten  thousand  lire  for  it  time  and  time  again,  which 
peculiarly  enhances  its  beauty.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"Anyway,  I  wouldn't  mind  having  it — if  I  were  sure 
I  could  get  ten  thousand  lire  or  not." 

"It  is  yours,  signora." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  suppose  I  would  accept  such 
gifts,  Signer  Cenari." 

He  turned. 

"Kind?"  he  echoed. 

"Kind  to  me,  I  mean,  to  be  so  absurd  as  to  suppose  I 
would  take  it." 

135 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"It  was  offered  only  in  jest,  signora,"  he  said,  and 
turned  to  busy  himself  in  the  room. 

Dorris  caught  her  breath. 

His  indifference  was  certainly  novel  in  her  experience 
of  men,  and  it  piqued  her;  besides,  it  was  a  contradiction 
of  his  previous  manner  to  her,  which  was,  to  say  the  least, 
puzzling. 

"Come,  Cordelia,"  she  cried  swinging  about,  "I  must 
change  my  gown  before  we  go,  and  fear  we  have  lingered 
too  long  already  for  the  signore's  comfort." 

She  met  Cenari's  glance  as  she  passed  into  the  adjoining 
room,  and  it  was  brimful  of  friendly  salute,  nothing  more. 
She  bit  her  lip  when  she  was  alone  with  Cordelia.  It 
seemed  that  the  whole  day  was  spoiled. 

When  they  were  leaving  the  studio,  Cordelia  invited 
the  artist  to  dine  with  them  at  seven. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  so  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "The  good 
things  always  come  too  late.  I  have  accepted  an  invita- 
tion elsewhere.  But  perhaps  I  may  be  permitted  to  call 
a  little  later?" 

"Very  well;  we  shall  expect  you.  Come  to  the  garden- 
gate,  and  Mrs.  Van  Lennep  and  Felno  will  serenade  you. 
Our  gondolier  plays  very  well,  by  the  way.  Good  after- 
noon." 

He  held  the  velvet  curtain  aside  as  they  passed  out. 

"Cordelia,  in  the  name  of  nonsense — what  did  you  say 
that  for?"  whispered  Dorris  a  moment  later.  "He  will 
think  we  are  making  fun  of  him." 

"Well,  he  deserves  to  think  so,  doesn't  he?"  said  her 
friend  curtly  as  they  got  into  their  boat. 

"Cordelia,"  said  the  girl,  "what  a  tragic  aspect  Venice 
wears  when  rain  threatens.  She  seems  like  an  old  and 

136 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

faded  woman  in  the  early  morning  without  the  aid  of 
jewels  and  paint,  for  the  sun  does  hide  the  wrinkles  of 
years,  in  this  case." 

"Her  girdles  are  worn  and  her  laurels  faded,"  sighed 
Cordelia,  "and  moreover  I  hope  Cenari  gets  caught  in  the 
rain." 

When  Dorris  reached  the  Torni  steps  she  was  seized 
with  an  inspiration.  "I'll  see  if  there's  any  mail,  Cordelia. 
No  one  has  inquired  to-day."  She  stepped  into  the  gon- 
dola and  ordered  Felno  to  row  to  the  Piazza,  but  as  soon 
as  they  lost  sight  of  Torni,  they  took  a  roundabout  route 
among  the  lesser  canals  to  Casa  Bonti  in  the  Via  Mai- 
ferine,  where  lived  the  agent  for  the  palace.  Once  there, 
she  entered  Bond's  office,  and  he  was  speedily  summoned. 

"Signor  Bonti,  I  sent  my  maid  to  you  yesterday  with 
the  key  to  the  second  story  of  the  Palazzo  Spechio-Torni. 
I  should  like  to  ask  for  it  again,  for  I  have  forgotten  some- 
thing. But  I  will  not  keep  it  so  long  this  time,  Signor 
Bonti.  You  know  it  fell  into  my  hands  by  mistake  before." 

Bonti  remembered  her  father,  and  concluding  that  she 
had  visited  the  vacant  rooms  from  motives  of  sentiment, 
beamed  in  sympathy  upon  her  as  he  complied  with  her 
request. 

"Has  Signor  Bonti  rented  the  rest  of  the  palazzo?" 
she  asked,  on  receiving  the  key. 

"Not  as  yet — but  he  lives  in  hopes." 

"But  you  are  succeeding  this  summer  with  your  houses 
in  general,  I  hope." 

"Oh,  madame,  it  is  the  same  as  ever,  neither  more 
nor  less." 

He  escorted  her  with  old-world  courtesy  to  her  gon- 
dola, and  soon  she  was  on  the  way  to  the  Piazza  for  her 

137 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

mail.  There  was  none,  as  indeed  she  had  anticipated. 
She  would  hasten  home  now.  As  she  walked  back  to  her 
boat,  she  thought  she  saw  Cenari  in  the  shadow,  and  un- 
consciously slackened  her  pace.  But  the  footsteps  died 
away.  Again,  she  imagined  that  he  passed  her  in  another 
gondola  as  she  neared  Torni.  She  brought  herself  up 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  laughter.  There  was  no  reason 
why  she  should  see  the  painter  in  every  man  she  met.  It 
was  absurd. 

She  found  Cordelia  ready  for  tea  in  the  ball-room ;  the 
reception-rooms  were  rarely  used. 

"Absolutely  no  mail,  Cordelia,"  Dorris  said,  kissing 
her.  "We're  not  popular,  you  see." 

"Come,  Dorris,  help  me  with  this  difficult  Italian  of 
d'Annunzio  after  we  have  chatted  a  bit.  Have  you 
read  it?" 

"I  suppose  I  have,  but  I  didn't  know  his  books  or  poems 
were  scattered  about  here." 

"This  'Triumph  of  Death'  I  found  in  the  cabinet. 
Isn't  that  a  find?" 

"He  has  a  wonderful  sense  of  beauty,  Cordelia,  but  he 
is  morbid  and  cruel." 

"Speaking  of  cruelty,  Dorris" — 

"Yes.    Cenari— what?" 

Cordelia  smiled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"He  has  traveled  the  world  over  and  has  known  every 
one  worth  knowing,  and  still  has  painted  the  most  cele- 
brated beauties  of  the  time.  How  do  you  suppose  he  has 
managed  it?" 

"I  have  wondered,  but  imagine  there  is  a  simple  enough 
explanation.  He  has  lived  intensely — felt  the  sun  burn 
him  in  the  East  and  the  snows  freeze  him  in  the  North" — 

138 


The     Strength-    to     Yield 

"And  women  chase  him  in  the  West,"  supplemented  her 
friend  with  childlike  innocence. 

Dorris  did  not  seem  to  hear. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "he  is  forever  on  the  qui  vive 
for  knowledge,  and  then  he  hands  it  about  with  such  an 
air  of  blandness.  He  has  what  Shaw  calls,  'a  capacity 
for  experience.'  And  somehow,  one  feels  that  his  memory 
must  be  remarkable.  To  be  pedantic,  he  illustrates  Aris- 
totle's 'acquired  idea'  to  me,  rather  than  the  innate  of 
Plato.  In  his  mind,  one  feels  that  impressions  are  stored 
as  in  a  phonograph.  I  mean  impressions  that  he  receives 
never  really  fade.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Not  precisely,  Dorris.  Your  psychology  is  a  little 
mixed  up  with  Paolology.  But  I  see  your  point  of  view, 
and  that  is  what  you  want,  isn't  it?" 

Cordelia  looked  at  Dorris  caressingly  as  she  spoke. 

"Let  us  run  along  and  dress,  girlie,"  she  added. 

They  left  the  room  arm  in  arm,  and  both  indulged  in 
a  little  nap  before  dressing  for  dinner. 

After  they  had  finished  dinner  and  were  seated  in  the 
ball-room,  Cordelia  complained  of  headache  and  nerves. 
"I  wonder  if  you'd  mind  if  I  dropped  into  bed  a  little 
after  Cenari  comes,  Dorris,  for  I  am  simply  dead.  Would 
it  be  terribly  rude?"  she  asked. 

"No,  dear,  not  a  bit  if  you  are  not  well.  Poor,  dear 
Cordelia,"  Dorris  stroked  her  hair.  "Run  along  if  you 
wish." 

"No — I'll  wait  until  then;  it  is  better." 

Cordelia  in  desperation  had  arranged  a  plan  of  cam- 
paign. Possibly  she  might  achieve  success — influence  Dor- 
ris as  she  had  done  in  other  days,  by  skilled  tactics — tactics 
having  a  strict  and  logical  relation  to  the  girl's  psycholog- 

139 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

ical  state.  If  one  had  the  self-control  to  get  into  sympathy 
with  absolutely  alien  emotions — the  love,  to  sift  another's 
point  of  view — surely,  then,  the  restless,  turbulent  spirit 
she  would  influence,  might  become  as  clay  in  the  potter's 
hands. 

After  Cenari  came,  however,  Cordelia  felt  the  curb 
of  Dorris's  restlessness.  She  could  not  settle  herself  to 
read,  to  doze;  rather  she  lay  upon  her  couch  staring 
blankly  at  the  candles  and  at  the  shadows  they  cast  upon 
the  floor. 

And,  meantime,  Cenari  was  looking  at  Dorris  across 
the  piano.  "You  won't  sing  for  me?"  he  asked.  "No? 
Then  come  into  the  garden.  The  weather-god  seems  to 
favour  the  evenings  we  spend  together.  Just  come  and 
look." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  balcony  overlooking  the  gar- 
den, from  which  a  faint,  earthy  smell  arose  to  them.  The 
half  moon  cast  the  shadow  of  the  near-by  palace  far  into 
the  garden — and  a  fresh  breeze  was  coming  in  from  the 
Adriatic. 

"Yes,  I  will  go  out,  Signer  Cenari.  Wait  till  I  get  a 
wrap." 

She  left  him  by  the  window  looking  absently  down  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  inhaling  the  fragrant  perfume  of  the 
summer  night.  They  walked  out  a  moment  later,  instinc- 
tively seeking  the  seat  in  the  garden's  shadow,  regardless 
of  the  fact  that  it  was  dampened  by  the  evening  mist;  nor 
did  either  apparently  feel  the  penetrating  chill  of  the  wind 
from  the  sea. 

Suddenly  her  whole  being  seemed  to  respond  to  the 
mere  consciousness  of  his  presence,  and  she  was  answering 
the  slight  pressure  of  his  hand  in  the  half  light.  Then 

140 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

something  seemed  to  annihilate  the  intervening  space,  and 
Cenari  was  whispering: — 

"Dear  lips,  soft  and  red,  give  them  to  me — to  me!  I 
have  wanted  them  so  long." 

Lured  on  by  the  tenderness  awakening  within  her,  by 
the  honey  of  romance,  by  the  multiform  arts  which  trans- 
form weakness  into  poetry,  she  was  blind — until  an  abrupt 
transition  admitted  a  ray  of  light  and  let  in  fury  with  it. 

"How  dare  you — how  dare  you?"  she  flashed  out  at 
him,  while  before  her  eyes  stretched  out  a  long  and  im- 
posing line  of  princessly  Roman  ladies,  the  tips  of  whose 
fingers  this  presumptuous  Italian  would  scarcely  have 
dared  to  kiss.  "Because  I  have  trusted  you — have  come 
here  with  you,  you  take  the  first  opportunity  to  insult 
me — as  you  would  insult  a  hair-brained  grisette  at  whom 
you  had  tossed  a  lira.  Because  my  husband  is  not  in  Italy, 
because  you  fancy  me  powerless,  because,  forsooth,  the 
American  woman  has  not  the  keen  scent  for  propriety  of 
your  high-born  dames,  you  take  this  advantage.  A  thous- 
and years  of  pageantry  does  not  call  on  pride,  perhaps — 
but  it  should  on  honour — which  you  do  not  even  know. 
I  am  proud  of  my  country  as  I  never  was  before." 

"Pardon,  Marchesa"  said  Cenari  with  mock  humility, 
"I  know  that  no  American  would  ever  kiss  a  lady  in  a 
shadow  1" 

Dorris  glared  at  him. 

"Is  this  all,  signora,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  melting  with 
glib  celerity  into  sadness.  "You  answered  my  slight  touch 
upon  your  hand.  I  dared  to  think — but  I  know  now  it 
was  madness.  But  I  thought, — you  might — oh!  let  it 
pass.  I  will  offend  no  more." 

"Might  what?"  she  demanded. 

141 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Might  have  cared,  signora." 

"Cared?    For  you!" 

"Hardly  that.  My  thoughts  have  not  such  flight;  but 
I  might  have  thought  you  cared — enough  to  kiss  me  in 
this  light."  • 

"Signore!" 

He  smiled. 

"Is  it  so  wrong,  my  Puritana?"  were  the  words  that 
came  to  her  like  music,  as  they  stood  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes.  "Why?  And  why — and  why?" 

Then  Wonderland  opened  out  before  her — there  was 
a  sudden  breaking  up  of  the  structure  of  family  pride,  of 
womanly  dignity;  and  her  arms  went  out  in  the  darkness. 

"Paolo,  kiss  me,"  she  murmured  in  a  voice  that  trem- 
bled, as  lip  sought  lip. 

Then  suddenly  as  he  released  her,  a  sob  broke  from 
her,  and  she  vanished.  But  in  that  kiss  she  had  seen  the 
path  that  women  tread. 


142 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

I  thought  we  slept  on  the  desert  sands 

Where  the  old  date-gardens  lie, 
And  a  golden  mist  of  quivering  stars 

Was  scattered  across  the  sky. 

— Stars  of  the  Desert. 

Dorris  crept  in  silence  to  her  room,  and  then  threw 
herself  face  downward  upon  her  bed.  Still  fresh  upon 
her  lips  was  her  first  kiss  of  love,  and  through  her  a 
torrent  of  emotion  was  rushing  in  wild  phantasmagoria, 
transforming  all  her  habits  of  thought. 

So  the  wonderful  experience  had  come  to  her,  that 
illuminating  view  which  she  would  fain  have  shut  out, 
that  voice  of  the  inevitable,  calling  down  three  genera- 
tions of  her  blood.  But  why  had  they  shut  the  sweetness 
out  in  death, — her  mother,  and  the  mother  of  that 
mother?  As  the  force  of  it  gripped  her  in  the  garden, 
fear  had  not  entered  in,  and  of  this  had  she  not  given 
evidence  to  herself  and  to  him  in  a  burning  kiss?  But  now 
their  steps  were  on  the  pavement  and  coming  up  the  stair- 
case and  echoing  through  the  marble  halls,  the  steps  of 
those  dead  women  whose  blood  was  still  her  own.  The 
blood  beating  in  her  temples,  hammering  around  her 
heart,  fevering  her  cheeks,  was  their  blood,  singing  and 
accusing — though  staunched  in  the  tomb. 

It  was  the  City  of  Temptations — D'Annunzio  was 
right.  She  opened  the  window  and  leaned  out,  and  it 
slept  as  those  women  of  her  race  beyond  the  sea — in 
death,  both  of  them.  But  the  smile  of  decaying  marble 
was  pointing  backward  to  the  city's  pride  and  glory;  and 

143 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

the  anguish  in  her  blood,  to  the  sorrows  of  her  race. 
And  the  city  itself  rising  from  its  moving  waters,  was 
laughing  at  her — just  as  her  blood  laughed!  Yet  its 
history  was  a  stately  poem  in  the  soft  metre  of  love ! 

A  gondola  passed  as  she  stepped  into  the  balcony,  and 
strains  of  music  and  laughter  were  wafted  up  to  her. 

"They  can  be  happy,  but  I  can  never  be,"  she  thought. 
"Here  I  stand  a  prisoner  in  my  chains.  Why  should 
they  be  free?  I  did  not  choose  my  lot.  I  did  not  choose 
to  fight  against  this  mania  1  They  out  there  have  none  to 
fight  against." 

She  knew  at  last  what  she  had  done  against  herself 
in  marriage;  why,  for  the  very  fear  of  life  and  its  mean- 
ing, ardent  maidens  became  saints,  and  saints  courtesans; 
why  reckless  women  drained  the  cup  to  its  lees,  and  paid 
the  price  of  shame  in  blood;  why  gentle  wives  forgot 
in  infamous  selfishness  the  name  they  had  sworn  to  life- 
long honour! 

Yet  the  whole  world  seemed  sweeter  for  the  knowledge 
that  she  bore.  The  undreamed-of  thing  had  come  to 
Dorris  Bedford,  and  it  should  give  her  something  that 
she  craved,  were  it  only  the  shadow  of  the  shadow  of 
Love.  The  very  air  seemed  sweeter  for  the  dream  which 
could  never  be  realized,  for  the  will-o'-the-wisp  she  was 
chasing  this  night.  Poor  Cordelia,  who  understood  so 
well,  had  seen  this  shadow  pausing  to  take  breath  before 
it  overtook  her,  this  night  of  the  thousand  voices. 

She  stood  looking  upon  her  sleeping  friend  tenderly 
before  she  adjusted  the  down  quilt  about  her,  closed  the 
window,  and  left  a  soft  kiss  upon  her  cheek. 

Soon,  beneath  the  heavy  damask  rose  of  her  own  bed- 
curtains,  lay  a  sleepless  woman,  pursued  by  phantoms 

144 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

which  seemed  never  to  overtake,  yet  in  the  effort,  leaped 
and  raced  and  capered;  then  there  was  the  rushing  as 
of  the  sea  in  her  ears.  She  jumped  up  and  paced  the 
floor,  stumbling  against  a  chair  with  a  cry  of  pain  at  last, 
and  sinking  down  against  the  dresser,  to  think,  forsooth, 
to  think! 

"Fight,  Dorris,  fight!"  that  phantom  was  crowing. 
"Get  the  key,  unlock  the  dresser.  It  will  lead  you  to 
ether  and  dreams.  And  then  you  will  not  be  Dorris 
Bedford,  the  daughter  of  an  honoured  father,  fighting 
for  the  sake  of  a  name,  but  a  nymph,  free  as  the  wind 
and  as  tameless,  subject  to  no  law !" 

Then  again, — "Only  a  drop  or  two,  just  enough  to 
drown  this  pain.  You  are  afraid,  Dorris,  to  fight  the 
battle  alone.  You  are  afraid  to  face  your  newly  awak- 
ened womanhood!  You  are  a  coward.  Why  is  it  any 
worse  for  you  to  suffer  than  for  others?  And  no  one 
was  ever  so  full  of  pain.  You  are  afraid  of  those  cold, 
marble  stairs,  and  that  room  where  your  father  slept, 
and  that  the  bottle  of  ether  may  not  be  there.  Cordelia  has 
seen  it  all — the  battle  that  is  raging  in  your  heart, — the 
ether  that  you  would  seek  to  drown  it.  She  is  wise  be- 
yond women,  Dorris,  she  can  see  into  your  soul." 

Dorris  shivered,  and  crawled  round  in  front  of  the 
dresser,  then  sought  to  unlock  a  drawer.  Fear  unnerved 
her.  She  lighted  a  candle  and  started  out  through  the 
passageway  into  the  ball-room.  Then  shadows  flickered 
in  her  way,  and  she  thought  she  heard  steps  stealthily 
behind  her.  She  dared  not  turn  her  head.  When  on  the 
marble  of  the  ancient  staircase,  spectres  accompanied 
her,  racing  up  and  down, — the  spectres  of  the  lost  souls 
who  had  died  in  the  Spechio-Torni  in  ghostly  centuries 

145 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

which  she  shuddered  to  recall.  Why  could  they  not  stay  in 
their  sumptuous  tombs,  and  leave  her  to  her  own  torment? 

And  this  fear  was  new  to  her.  Never  as  a  child  had 
she  trembled  in  the  dark.  She  would  brave  it,  she  would 
run  up  the  remaining  steps,  and  burst  into  that  room. 
Once  on  the  landing,  she  paused  and  gripped  her  throat. 
Then  she  placed  the  candle  before  her  on  the  floor,  and 
fought,  as  before,  to  unlock  the  heavy  central  door.  The 
old  oak,  yielding  to  her  pressure,  made  an  unearthly 
sound  in  the  late  silence  of  the  sleeping  palace. 
She  entered  the  bedroom  without  hesitation  and  held 
the  candle  aloft,  braving  whatever  might  lurk  in  the 
spaces  between  the  shadows.  The  thing  she  was  in 
search  of,  the  lure  for  those  twenty  thousand  devils  danc- 
ing as  before  St.  Anthony  on  a  needle's  point,  was  con- 
tained in — ether! 

But  she  could  not  find  the  bottle  which  she  had  taken 
away  before,  and  which  had  disappeared  from  the  sunken 
bath  where  she  had  left  it  for  an  hour  or  two.  At  last 
she  became  tired  of  searching,  and  threw  open  the  win- 
dow, leaning  out  into  the  night.  She  caught  the  fragrance 
of  the  jessamine  shrubs  from  the  garden,  and  inhaled  it 
in  long,  deep  breaths,  closing  her  eyes  the  while  and 
dreaming  that  she  was  on  an  oasis  in  a  desert  laden 
with  musk. 

Of  what  use  was  this  prosaic  life  with  its  foolish  con- 
ventions, its  senseless  routine,  its  hypocrisy,  its  back-biting, 
its  lopsided  morality,  when  the  world  was  so  beautiful,  the 
hidden  part  of  it, which  these  false-visioned people  shut  out? 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  drifting  in  a  gondola  with  him 
by  my  side  this  moment?  Why  should  I  shut  myself 
up  within  these  walls  on  a  night  I  cannot  sleep  ?  And 

146 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

in  Venice,  too,  where  the  very  stones  breathe  the  mys- 
teries of  the  centuries,  and  cry  with  the  voices  of  the  dead. 
If  death  were  a  long,  delicious  sleep, — and  I  might  dream 
of  him !  Francesca  da  Rimini,  condemned  to  float  through 
eternity  in  her  Paolo's  arms — did  Dante  call  that  punish- 
ment?" She  laughed.  Why,  Dorris  would  be  content 
with  misery  if  it  would  mean  him,  to  be  blind  if  she  could 
but  feel  his  presence.  It  was  the  one  thing  she  cared  to  live 
for.  Paolo,  Paolo,  Paolo!  His  face  was  framed  in  all 
these  palaces,  his  presence  lingered  in  the  garden  walks. 

She  closed  the  window  again  and  passed  into  the  cor- 
ridor, when  something  rolled  before  her  as  she  stepped. 
It  was  the  ether.  She  stooped  down  and  seized  it,  and 
without  waiting  to  close  the  door  fled  quickly  down  the 
staircase.  The  force  that  drove  her  was  as  strong  as 
the  tremulous  fear  of  a  few  moments  before.  It  was 
a  satisfaction  to  gain  her  room  at  last,  clutching  securely 
the  thing  she  had  conquered  her  fears  to  get. 

"Visions  of  happiness  and  peace — or  nightmares,"  she 
soliloquized.  "Who  knows  the  mystery  that  these  few 
drops  may  tangle  into  my  sleep — a  mystery  upon  a  mys- 
tery— and  here  I  stand  pleading  for  it,  preferring  dreams 
to  rest?  Ah,  well!" 

Of  what  use  was  it  to  fight  against  a  temptation  to 
which  in  the  end  she  must  yield?  What  a  waste  of 
effort !  Only  the  intense  longing  to  be  at  rest,  the  longing 
without  the  power,  suggested  the  striking  of  that  hour 
her  mother  had  known, — the  annihilation  of  this  painful 
consciousness. 

She  blew  out  the  candle  and  crept  into  bed,  fatigued 
at  last  with  her  effort.  She  felt  over  the  quilt,  across 
the  sheet  up  to  the  pillow  and  toward  her  throat. 

147 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Then  she  uncorked  the  ether,  gathered  up  the  filmy 
handkerchief  which  she  saturated  with  it,  and  sitting 
upright  in  the  bed,  suddenly  found  herself  drifting  slowly 
out  with  Paolo  upon  a  painted  sea ! 


They  were  struggling  on  across  hot  sands,  the  thirst 
parching  their  very  souls,  the  blood  rushing  from  wounds 
in  their  feet,  and  the  hot  air  and  endless  search  stifling 
their  breath.  Hand  in  hand,  they  tramped  with  low 
moans,  further  on  into  the  hideous  glare  which  might 
as  well  have  been  darkness. 

Poisonous  spiders  stung  their  naked  arms,  their  san- 
daled feet,  but  there  seemed  no  turning  back.  He  held 
her  hand  and  whispered  that  yonder  brightness  which 
they  had  ever  been  approaching  was  not  a  mirage; 
and  the  sweetness  of  his  message  would  make  all  time 
dear  to  her— on  that  oasis  which  held  the  city  on  the 
sands ! 

The  heat  grew  on  apace,  as  if  belched  forth  upon  them, 
and  no  caravan  crossed  their  pathway,  and  the  cup  of 
water  was  the  dream  of  Paradise.  What  was  it,  the 
magic  of  quenched  thirst?  Romance  knew  it.  Life  had 
left  it  far  behind. 

But  still  she  walked  with  him  whose  words,  though 
fainter  and  fainter  and  dying  gradually  into  echoes,  were 
her  all.  And  their  eyes  strained  out  together  to  search 
still  for  that  city.  But  dunes  of  sand  rose  cruelly  in  the 
foreground,  obscuring  the  mirage,  deadening  the  hope. 

At  last  the  aching  ceased,  the  burning  glare  was  riven, 
and  the  city  was  before  them ;  but  it  had  fallen,  and  she 
lifted  eyes  to  darkness  and  despair — then  glory.  It  was 

148 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

the  joy  of  his  presence,  the  yearning  for  his  touch,  still 
in  the  midst  of  ruin.  Then  she  staggered  forward  and 
knew  no  more. 

When  she  awoke,  it  was  to  feel  the  cool  softness  of 
the  sands,  and  of  his  devouring  eyes  and  lips.  She 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  hold  him,  but  he  was  not  there. 
At  least,  it  seemed  she  did  but  grasp  the  tip-ends  of  his 
fingers  which  were  slipping  away.  Still,  she  heard  his 
voice  and  felt  his  kiss.  Illusion!  Like  the  costliest  per- 
fume, like  the  rarest  things  of  life — beyond  the  reach, 
far  away,  as  the  pressure  of  his  mouth.  And  she  was 
alone,  alone,  alone,  in  the  abomination  of  desolation  upon 
the  sands!  Still,  they  were  cooling,  which  was  strange 
for  sands  under  a  parching  light,  and  the  sense  of  peace 
which  was  pervading  her  whole  being,  might  be  the  gentle 
voice  of  night. 

What  was  the  blue-black,  purple-blue,  lavender-black 
haze?  What  colour  was  it?  Of  what  substance  was  it? 
Shimmering  with  myriads  of  spangles  that  disc  hung  over- 
head where  thousands  of  eyes  sparkled  down  at  her.  She 
studied  their  shapes.  One  of  them  was  embroidered  like 
the  Southern  Cross.  She  laughed  in  her  joy,  and  lifted 
her  tired  body  on  an  elbow.  The  disc  was  not  an  em- 
broidered pattern — it  was  the  night  sky.  Oh,  God !  it  was 
the  Southern  Cross !  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen 
it  staring  at  her  from  Heaven,  this  emblem  of  all  faith. 
She  breathed  the  faint  perfume  of  the  Eastern  night,  and 
of  rose-petals,  rising  like  incense  from  a  distant  altar. 

The  ineffable  sweetness  and  languor  of  it  all  answered 
the  passionate  yearning  of  her  soul.  And  once  more,  it 
was  to  know  he  was  with  her,  he  who  could  transform 
like  a  god! 

149 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

She  forgot  her  tired  limbs,  her  aching  and  bleeding 
feet,  since  he  was  near  her,  since  his  strong  arms  held 
her  close;  since,  it  seemed,  that  she  could  answer  to  some 
call  from  his  great  strength,  since  to  her  had  been  given 
the  gift  of  answering  the  soul  in  him!  But  she  waited, 
and  listened — waited  at  the  call  of  her  vanity,  listened 
for  the  approval  of  the  world.  And  he  had  gone. 

Loneliness,  then,  brought  back  to  her  all  the  pain  of 
her  journeying,  and  the  awakened  senses  hurt.  There, 
there,  there !  At  last,  in  the  clear  distance  arose  the  fairy 
city,  like  an  answer  to  her  hope.  Its  palms  swayed  in 
the  breeze,  its  minarets  saluted  the  stars.  The  mosque! 
The  mosque,  with  its  round,  golden  dome  was  a  sentinel, 
and  through  her  rang  the  lines: — 

"Dim  in  the  East,  the  ruined  city  lies, 
Purple  against  the  paler  purple  skies, 
And  slender  palms  and  minarets  arise 
Into  the  night." 

It  was,  indeed,  the  City  of  Allah!  She  was  so  near, 
so  near — could  she  ever  partake,  live  in,  be  part  of  its 
Hindu  beauty,  sit  like  a  daughter,  reverent,  beneath 
the  slender  palms,  kneel  in  its  holy  mosque? 

"What  care  I,"  she  thought,  "if  I  never  reach  the 
flowers,  the  incense,  the  oasis?  What  care  I,  for  I  have 
seen  an  Eastern  night  on  the  desert  sands,  have  felt  its 
wonder,  breathed  its  perfume.  But  that  is  as  nothing, 
nothing,  for  I  have  felt — the  touch  of  his  lips  on  my 
mouth." 


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The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Ah,  but  his  lightest  kiss  was  more  sweet  to  me 
Than  any  caress  of  thine,  O  silver  sea! 
His  arms  have  held  me  gentler  e'en  than  thou 
In  thy  liquid  green  embraces  hold'st  me  now. 

— Laurence  Hope. 

The  sun  rose  and  bathed  the  city  a  beautiful  gold. 
Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  the  tree-tops  in  the  garden. 
As  Cordelia  opened  her  window  wide  and  looked  down 
the  canal,  she  felt  the  warm  promise  of  the  day.  She 
liked  midsummer  weather,  always  feeling  a  sense  of 
loss  if  the  place  of  her  abode  furnished  cool  days  in  July! 

When  she  went  in  to  awaken  Dorris,  she  found  the 
girl  lying  with  the  gold  of  her  loosened  hair  covering 
her  shoulders  and  hiding  her  night-dress,  and  even  a  loose 
strand  following  the  curve  of  the  arm  which  hung 
over  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Cordelia  waited  there  a  moment  before  her  gaze  was 
arrested  by  the  uncorked  bottle  on  the  floor.  Then 
smothering  a  scream,  she  rushed  upon  the  sleeping  girl. 

To  her  relief  the  tired  head  of  Dorris  turned  on  the 
pillow,  and  the  red  lips  parted,  but  there  was  a  lack-lustre 
look  in  the  half-opened  eyes. 

"Dorris,  Dorris!  Speak  to  me!  What  have  you 
done?" 

Dorris's  eyes  were  speaking  now. 

"Good  morning,  Cordelia.     What  is  the  matter?" 

"Dorris,  that  bottle — what  were  you  doing  with  it?" 

"What  was  /  doing  with  it?    /  didn't  buy  it.     Some 

151 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

one  got  it  to  clean  a  dress  with,  when  I  was  in  Venice 
with  my  father." 

"Who?    What  do  you  mean?    Stop  laughing  Dorris." 

"I'm  not  laughing.  Susan  bought  it,  I  believe;  and 
I  was  looking  around  upstairs  one  morning,  and  ran 
across  it" 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Well,  not  exactly.  But  I  have  slept  pretty  badly 
lately,  so  I  sprinkled  a  few  drops  on  my  mouchoir.  Now, 
don't  hide  it  again.  Where  is  it?" 

She  raised  herself  on  an  elbow  and  fumbled  for  the 
lace  handkerchief.  "Here  it  is.  There,  I  put  it  over 
my  face,  so — and  I  fell  into  the  most  exquisite  sleep  and 
dreamed  such  a  wonderful  dream." 

"It's  a  wonder  you  didn't  die,  child,"  said  the  fright- 
ened Cordelia,  pinching  the  tips  of  the  girl's  fingers  to 
be  sure  she  was  herself  awake  and  that  Dorris  would  cry 
out  and  corroborate  the  evidence.  "Dorris  Bedford,  I 
never  in  my  life  heard  of  such  a  thing.  What  put  ether 
into  your  head?  It's  a  wonder  the  fumes,"  she  held  her 
nose,  "didn't  kill  you  in  your  sleep." 

Then  she  walked  across  the  room  and  opened  the 
windows. 

Dorris  laughed. 

"Now,  Cordelia,  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  try  to 
make  me  believe  that  you  noticed  'a  strange,  pungent 
smell'  when  you  came  in,  for  you  just  know  you  didn't. 
Don't  try  to  make  me  think  so."  She  leaned  out  of  bed 
and  pointed  a  finger  at  Cordelia.  "For  shame,  for 
shame,  for  shame !  Ah,  I  have  it  now  1  Did  you  think" — 
she  lay  back  upon  the  pillows  and  laughed;  "you  didn't 
think  I  was  going  to  end  it  all,  did  you,  without  saying — 

152 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

good-bye  to  you?"  The  girl's  voice  sunk  into  a  whisper. 
"Is  that  why  you  took  the  bottle  out  of  the  sunken  bath 
that  day?  Well,  rest  assured  that  the  contents  of  it  are 
hardly  strong  enough  to  put  me  to  sleep,  permanently. 
Why,  even  corked  up  as  it  was,  half  of  it  has  evaporated 
since  it  was  opened  last.  I  took  it  to  kill  desperate  insom- 
nia. I'm  a  wreck  when  I  can't  sleep.  Cordelia,  it's  no  use 
hiding  it  again,  for  if  you  do  I  shall  go  straight  to  a  doctor 
to  get  something  worse,  to  ease  my  feverish,  nervous  con- 
dition— the  condition  I  have  been  in  lately.  If  you  doubt 
it,  listen  to  what  I  did  to  get  it.  I  went  up  in  the  night, 
alone,  through  those  spooky  rooms  for  it.  Oh,  don't 
scold  me,  Cordelia,  please  don't!  I  have  never  known 
such  terror  as  that  which  gripped  me  last  night.  But  I 
conquered  it,  and  went  up  there,  all  alone !" 

Cordelia  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  looked  sor- 
rowfully into  the  lovely,  smiling  eyes. 

"Dorris,  dear,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  speak  plainly. 
It  may  be  imagination,  but  I  am  so  afraid  this  desire 
you  have  to  put  yourself  to  sleep  in  an  unnatural  way,  is 
only  the  beginning  of  that  other.  And,  Dorris,  it  grips 
my  heart  in  horror." 

Cordelia's  face  was  troubled,  and  pity  dawned  in 
Dorris's  eyes. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Cordy,"  she  said,  pressing  her 
friend's  hand.  "Oh,  don't  be  absurd!  I  have  no  desire 
to  do  that  unspeakable  thing.  End  myself  forever? 
Why,  Cordelia,  even  if  I  did  want  to,  I'm  too  much  of 
a  coward.  It  is  only  nervous  irritability  that  gets  me — 
gets  me,  I  tell  you — when  I  need  rest.  I  cannot  make 
you  understand,  but  it  pushes  me  on  and  on.  Sometimes 
I  want  to  reach  something,  and  I  can't.  I  want  to 

153 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

scream,  and  I  can't.  It  is  as  if  I  were  hanging  and 
writhing  about,  and  couldn't" — 

"How  often  have  you  felt  this?  It  is  more  than  once 
or  twice,  certainly.  Once  I  found  you  in  a  faint  in  my 
room  by  the  window.  You  said  you  had  not  screamed, 
but  it  was  your  screams  that  awakened  me,  Dorris.  And 
as  I  look  back,  I  feel  sure  that  a  great  deal  of  your 
mother's  trouble  began  with  sleeplessness.  It  may  all 
have  been  due  to  that.  Why,  I  can't  let  you  continue. 
You  would  want  more  and  more  each  time.  If  you 
couldn't  have  it,  you  would  pass  ever  darker  and  darker 
hours.  Each  time  of  yielding  would  be  succeeded  by 
deeper  suffering,  and  the  dreams  you  have  would  progress 
in  sweetness, — the  sweetness  that  lures  to  ruin.  You 
would  want  to  reach  something,  and  to  reach  it,  you  must 
take  the  all — you  would  sometime  take  enough  to  die. 
Dorris,  I  have  read  medical  works  and  talked  to  men  of 
science  on  this  very  subject.  The  person  who  develops 
insanity — the  mania  for  self-destruction  begins  as  you 
have  begun.  I  tell  you  because  I  want  to" — 

"Scare  me,  yes!"  Dorris  breathed,  yet  she  looked  very 
grave.  "Are  you  telling  me  the  truth,  Cordelia?"  she 
finally  gasped.  "How  horrible  you  make  it — the  begin- 
ning that  seemed  so  sweet.  I  did  want  to  reach  some- 
thing,— was  mad  to  reach  it.  What  you  say  is  true,  but 
what  can  I  do?  When  one  of  those  compelling  moods 
comes  over  me,  I  am  held." 

"But  when  did  you  feel  it  first?" 

"When  I  rode  to  Mira.  I  galloped  the  horse  till 
his  sides  were  streaked  with  foam  and  blood,  and  he 
nearly  threw  me.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Cenari" — 


154 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Let's  forget  Cenari.  Be  more  with  me.  And  when- 
ever you  feel  one  of  these  spells  coming  on,  tell  me.  Sup- 
pose we  consult  Dr.  Ruberto?  He  is  in  Rome  now." 

"Thank  you;  I  decline  to  be  experimented  with." 

"But,  Dorris— " 

"I  will  not,  I  tell  you,"  rising  up  in  bed;  "it  will  make 
me  stronger  in  the  end.  I  will  take  something  to  make 
me  sleep.  How  can  I  live  if  I  don't  sleep?  I  will  see 
the  doctor  for  that.  Why,  Cordelia,  when  that  thing 
grips  me,  I  feel  that  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  get  somewhere. 
It  is  awful — myself  rising  against  myself  like  that.  It 
is  awful!" 

"Let  me  sleep  in  here  with  you,  then,"  coaxed  Cordelia, 
afraid  to  counsel  leaving  Venice  altogether  to  get  a 
change  of  scene.  "I  will  get  some  bromide  to  help 
out." 

"You  are  a  bromide  yourself,"  laughed  Dorris,  "but 
suppose  we  talk  of  merrier  things.  The  day  will  be  hot. 
I  am  going  to  the  Lido  for  a  swim.  Will  you  come 
along,  dear?  Do!  And  we  can  lunch  in  that  little  arbor 
of  a  cafe.  Do  you  remember  it?  Just  you,  Cordelia, 
and  I.  And  we  will  sit  on  the  sands  and  watch  the  lateen 
sails  along  the  horizon.  What  do  you  say?" 

The  girl  was  moving  about  the  room  making  ready  to 
dress. 

"It  is  luxuriously  warm,  Cordelia,  isn't  it?  and  oo-ooh! 
won't  the  Adriatic  be  cool  and  fresh?" 

"You  go  over  with  Maria  for  the  swim,  Dorris,  while  I 
go  to  market.  The  servants  can't  do  as  well,  you  know. 
You  remember  last  night's  dinner?  Then  I'll  come  to 
fetch  you  at  the  baths,  and  we  will  have  your  deliciously 
planned  luncheon.  Al  fresco  meals  are  always  delightful, 

155 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

and  it  doesn't  matter  at  all  when  one  gobbles  a  fly  or  a 
marine  animal  on  the  side." 

Dorris  joined  in  her  friend's  laughter. 

"These  are  tables,  even  if  they  are  al  fresco!  You  run 
along,  Cordy,  now,  and  get  yourself  dressed.  We're  up 
ahead  of  Maria,  but  I  don't  want  any  breakfast  anyway, 
and  I  hope  you  don't." 

Dorris  decked  herself  in  spotless  white  linen  and  a 
large  flowered  hat,  the  dainty  pink  of  whose  blossoms  en- 
hanced her  white  skin.  It  was  not  long,  indeed,  before 
she  was  gliding  with  Maria  down  the  canal  for  the  lagoon, 
her  bathing  costume  in  a  neat  parcel  in  one  end  of  the 
gondola.  Felno  had  a  quick  stroke  and  even  without  the 
aid  of  a  current  they  made  excellent  time. 

On  reaching  the  Lido,  they  walked  across  the  island  to 
the  baths,  and  it  was  a  matter  of  a  very  short  time  before 
Dorris,  in  readiness  for  the  water,  was  walking  down  the 
steps  and  touching  the  soft  sands  of  the  beach.  She 
waited  a  moment,  playing  with  the  tiny  ripples  from 
the  Adriatic  curling  over  her  bare  feet,  while  Maria 
looked  at  her  in  admiration.  And,  indeed,  she  was  a  pic- 
ture in  the  sunshine,  her  slender  figure  delicately  curved 
in  the  black  silk,  and  her  gold  hair  bright  under  the  red 
handkerchief.  She  ran  the  length  of  the  beach,  and 
Maria's  eyes  were  still  upon  her  as  she  waded  into  the 
water.  There  were  few  bathers,  and  she  did  not  heed  any. 

To  herself,  meanwhile,  it  seemed  as  if  she  would  never 
get  into  deeper  water  as  she  walked  on,  her  feet  caressing 
the  soft  sands  beneath  them.  Gradually  the  water  was 
reaching  her  waist.  The  cool  contact  refreshed  her,  and 
she  gave  herself  up  to  the  sea,  beginning  a  steady  breast 
stroke.  He  who  has  bathed  in  Adriatic  waters  off  the 

156 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Lido  knows  well  their  shallow  nature;  and  while  Dorris 
was  breathing  in  the  pure  air  of  the  cloudless  day  as  she 
swam  onward,  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a  red  and 
yellow  sail  far  out  on  the  sea.  Its  reflection  in  the  water 
fascinated  her,  and  seemed  literally  to  hold  her  eyes  as 
she  went  steadily  toward  it. 

"Ah,"  she  thought,  "this  coolness  of  the  ocean  on  such 
a  day  makes  one  feel  it  is  good  to  be  alive,"  and  she 
recalled  her  dream  of  the  desert  which  wound  itself  up 
deliciously  with  the  reality  of  the  lateen  sail — and  the  one 
face  which  seemed  to  be  ever  before  her.  On,  on  she 
went  reluctantly. 

Then  suddenly  it  seemed  as  if  the  red  and  yellow  sail 
were  coming  nearer.  Her  arms  were  growing  tired,  the 
muscles  of  her  legs  stiff.  Then  she  tried  to  see  if  she 
could  touch  bottom ;  her  head  went  under,  in  her  endeavor. 
She  came  up  again  with  a  remembrance  of  where  she 
had  been  before  she  sank.  She  turned  her  course  under 
an  impulse  of  desperation,  and  looked.  Far,  far  away — 
almost  as  far  as  she  had  seen  the  city  rising  in  the  des- 
ert— she  saw  the  silver  sands  of  the  beach  and  a  small 
house.  Had  she  been  asleep  in  the  ocean?  That  little 
house  was  the  pavilion,  and  she  must  be  very,  very  far 
out.  And  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
reach  shallow  water,  to  stand  up  in  the  sea! 

The  tide  was  going  out,  and  with  it,  a  strong  current 
as  partner.  That  was  why  she  had  floated  so  dreamily 
through  the  waters.  That  was  why  the  lateen  sail  had 
come  closer.  She  had  neared  it;  and  thinking  of  him  all 
the  time,  so  unceasingly  that  all  sense  of  danger  was 
shut  out.  With  each  frantic  effort  to  swim  in,  she  knew 
quite  well,  that  she  was  being  carried,  ever  so  little,  out, 

157 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Far  in  the  distance  she  distinguished  something  coming 
toward  her.  A  swimmer?  How  could  she  suppose  help 
would  come,  since  she  had  gone  so  far  alone,  leaving 
poor  Maria — where?  She  could  not  think,  and  at  last 
gave  up  the  struggle,  as  in  one  gulping  cry,  her  body 
moved  slowly  backward  until — until  she  floated.  Her 
hands  clasped  her  head  as  she  rested  her  gaze  on  the 
blue  sky  above,  then  on  the  receding  Lido,  and  knew  that 
the  swimmer  with  swift,  sure  strokes  was  gaining  on 
her.  For  a  moment  he  disappeared,  and  she  closed  her 
eyes,  abandoning  her  passive  limbs  to  the  tide,  and  rev- 
elling in  the  exquisite  coolness  of  Adria's  waters. 

"Dorris,  Dorris!"  she  heard  precisely  as  it  had  come 
to  her  upon  the  desert,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  it  con- 
quered death,  "it  is  Leander." 

"Paolo,"  she  murmured,  "oh,  Paolo  1" 

"Hush,  don't  speak,"  he  commanded,  "do  as  I  bid  you 
now.  Never  mind  about  why  you  swam  so  far.  Put  your 
arm  on  my  shoulder — and  help  me  a  little.  They  have 
a  boat  from  shore.  It  will  be  only  a  moment,  dear." 

She  touched  him  ever  so  lightly  and  felt  him  carry  her 
forward,  his  powerful  strokes  troubling  the  water  as  he 
cleft  it  in  twain  to  make  their  path.  On  they  went  towards 
the  little  white  strip  of  beach  far  away,  which  she  had 
been  trying  so  long  to  reach.  And  the  house  on  the  beach 
was  growing  bigger  on  the  sands,  and  she  was  happier 
than  she  ever  remembered  to  have  been — happier  than  in 
that  dream  which  she  had  risked  her  life  to  have.  She 
tightened  her  grip,  and  put  an  arm  about  his  neck. 

They  went  under  together. 

"We  cannot  lose  time,"  he  resisted.  "Help — the  boat 
is  coming." 

158 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

But  she  was  not  conscious  of  obeying,  or  of  refusing 
to  obey.  She  only  knew  his  strong  arm  was  ploughing 
through  the  water,  and  that  her  mouth  was  filling.  It 
didn't  matter.  He  was  stern  and  cross,  and  stupidly  in 
earnest;  but  he  had  strength! 

The  dory  loomed  up  before  them.  Dorris  gave  a  faint 
cry  and  knew  no  more. 


159 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

O  Hair  of  gold!   O  Crimson  Lips!  O  Face 
Made  for  the  luring  and  the  love  of  man ! 
—Queen  Henrietta  Maria. 

Dorris  opened  her  eyes  to  find  herself  lying  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  boat,  her  head  propped  against  the  stern  seat. 
Slowly  she  remembered  what  had  occurred.  Two  Italians 
were  rowing  fast,  and  they  were  now  nearing  the  beach. 
Cenari,  seated  opposite  her,  smiled  as  he  saw  she  had 
recovered. 

"It  was  a  little  too  much  for  you,"  he  explained.  "You 
must  have  wonderful  endurance  to  have  swum  as  far  as 
you  did.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  now?  I  have  no 
smelling-salts  or  stimulants." 

She  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"I  would  never  take  smelling-salts.  You  should  know 
me  better  than  that.  What  happened?  Did  I  faint?" 

"Just  as  the  boat  was  nearing  us.  Had  it  happened 
sooner  we  would  both  have  drowned.  It  was  wonderful 
to  see  you  floating  out  there.  It  was  more  wonderful  to 
feel  your  gentle  touch  on  my  arm.  Then — do  you  remem- 
ber? you  tightened  it.  Poor  child,  you  must  have  been 
so  fatigued.  Yes,  you  tightened,  and  we  went  under  the 
water." 

They  were  speaking  low,  in  English. 

"Don't  call  me  'child,'  Signor  Cenari,  don't!  It  is  not 
like  you.  Call  me  Dorris.  I  loved  it  so — to  feel  it  was 
your  strength  that  was  saving  my  life.  You  are  strong. 
I  struggled  against  that  unkind  current,  but  could  do  noth- 

160 


The    Strength     to     Yield 

ing.  How  did  it  come  to  pass  that  it  was  you.  That  is 
the  marvel  of  it!" 

"I  saw  a  tall,  slender  girl  rush  into  the  sea,  and  I  fol- 
lowed— forgive !  I  followed.  Then  I  stood  and  watched 
you  swim.  You  swam  so  far.  At  last  I  grew  worried 
about  you,  and  ran  back  to  the  beach  to  call  a  boat,  I 
preceded  it  and  you  know  the  rest." 

"Out  there,  you  called  yourself, — Leander.  Am  I  your 
Hero,  then  ?  And  would  you  have  swum  across  the  Helles- 
pont for  my  caress?"  asked  Dorris. 

"Do  you  mean  in  bleak  December,  or  glorious  mid- 
summer?" 

"I  mean  at  any  time.  Would  you  swim  from  Abydos 
to  Sextos  to  feel  'my  gentle  pressure  on  your  arm'  ?" 

"Why,"  he  replied,  "I  would  even  swim  from  Scylla 
to  Charybdis,  for  the  very  sight  of  those  lips  of  yours — 
Yes,  I  would  be  a  Leander — but  then,  reflect !  One  needn't 
go  to  the  Bosphorus;  no,  nor  half  that  far  to  be  a  Hero!" 

Dorris  laughed  at  his  pun.  Then  her  eyes  sought  his 
own  smiling  ones,  as  she  said,  "Leander  died  for  Hero, 
or  rather  in  his  efforts  to  see  her.  You  have  saved  my 
life!" 

"That  would  be  a  sentimental  way  of  regarding  it. 
Your  life  would  have  been  saved  at  any  cost,  whether  I 
had  been  indulging  in  a  swim  or  not.  Fate  sent  me  to 
you  this  morning.  If  I  have  been  of  any  assistance  what- 
ever, I  cannot  tell  you  what  bitter-sweet  pleasure  it  gives 


me." 


"Ah!  don't  say  that,"  she  said  sweetly,  "not  bitter- 
sweet. See,  here  we  are !  Let  us  jump  out  and  walk  back 
to  the  pavilion.  I'm  not  tired  now.  Cordelia — did  she 
know  I  fainted?" 


161 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Mrs.  Gunter?"  he  asked.  "I  am  sure  she  was  neither  on 
the  beach,  nor  at  the  tables  when  I  left.  Perhaps  now" — • 

The  rowers  stopped,  and  Dorris  and  Paolo  sprang 
from  the  boat  into  knee-deep  water.  A  small  crowd  had 
gathered  to  witness  the  end  of  the  excitement.  It  annoyed 
Dorris  that  they  should  stare  at  her  as  she  walked  to 
the  bathing  house.  Maria  ran  tremblingly  to  her. 

"Has  Mrs.  Gunter  been  here,  Maria?"  she  asked. 

"No,  no,  I  have  not  seen  her,"  the  maid  answered  tim- 
idly. "Are  you  well?  I  was  so" — 

"That  will  do,  Maria.  Remember,  Mrs.  Gunter  is  to 
hear  nothing  of  this.  I  will  reward  you  with  a  present 
if  you  remain  close-mouthed." 

"Certainly,  signora,  certainly." 

"Now  run  away,  Maria,  I  will  dress  myself." 

Dorris  was  very  slow  about  dressing.  She  sat  on  the 
narrow  bench  in  her  little  bath-house,  and  thought.  He 
had  saved  her,  was  all  she  could  hear.  Her  senses  were 
deaf  to  another  sound,  another  breath.  How  strong  he 
was,  how  manly!  He  had  saved  her.  Was  it  Fate?  Is 
that  why  she  had  drifted  in  such  calm  unconcern?  Had 
Nemesis  arranged  this,  to  tempt  her  growing  love  for 
him,  on — and  on?  Did  she  love  him?  Or  was  it  July 
madness  that  came  to  her  in  the  sea-city  with  its  back- 
ground for  picturesque  romance?  She  felt  the  blood 
warm  in  her  cheeks  at  the  thought  of  the  kiss  she  had 
demanded  the  night  before  among  the  Spechio-Torni 
shrubs.  She  felt  it  cool  as  she  saw  his  outstretched  arms 
in  the  Adriatic. 

Her  reverie  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  knocking  on  the 
door.  "Dorris,  Dorris,  you  are  late,"  said  Cordelia  repri- 
mandingly. 

162 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Yes,  Cordelia,"  she  replied,  "and  I'm  nowhere  nearly 
dressed.  Sit  down  on  the  sands  and  wait.  I'll  hurry 
now  I  know  you're  here." 

It  was  only  five  minutes  after,  that  she  left  the  stuffy 
bath-house  for  the  heat  of  the  silver  sands.  She  greeted 
Cordelia  with  a  merry  laugh. 

"Oh,  what  a  swim  I  have  had — went  out  ever  so  far. 
The  water  was  delightfully  refreshing.  I'm  in  love  with 
the  Adriatic,  do  you  know  it?" 

"No,  Dorris,  but  I  know  it's  half-past  one,  and,  unro- 
mantic  as  it  may  seem,  I  am  hungry.  Take  me  to  your 
out-of-door  restaurant  at  once." 

They  sent  Maria  back  in  the  gondola  with  Dorris's 
bathing-suit,  and  asked  her  to  send  Felno  for  them  in 
an  hour.  Then  they  linked  arms  and  walked  half  way 
across  the  Lido  to  the  little  cafe  of  Dorris's  selection. 
She  was  wondering  where  Cenari  would  be.  Would  she 
see  him — ever  see  him?  She  wanted  so  much  to  be  with 
him  now,  to  sit  under  the  trees  at  a  table  with  him.  But 
she  was  with  Cordelia,  and  Cordelia  who  had  always 
delighted  her,  now  bored.  Her  low  voice  sounded  harsh. 
It  was  not  an  Italian  voice,  she  reflected.  Perhaps,  though, 
Cenari  would  pass.  Would  he  bow?  or  would  he  stop  to 
chat  with  them  ?  She  was  sure  he  would  merely  bow. 

They  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  cafe,  and  they 
were  seated  at  a  corner  table  in  the  shade  of  the  over- 
hanging branches  of  the  trees.  Cordelia  looked  at  Dorris 
and  laughed. 

"Do  you  know,  Dorris,  I  am  going  to  have  some  Saint 
Marceaux  here.  Oh,  I  have  been  to  this  dainty  place 
before !  I  had  Saint  Marceaux  here  then,  but  let  us  have 
it  now.  What  do  you  say?" 

163 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Very  well.  After  so  long  a  swim,  a  good  brand  of 
champagne  will  not  be  disagreeable.  Of  course  we  shall 
have  some." 

A  waiter  took  their  order,  and  they  lapsed  into  silence. 
Dorris  was  watching  a  bird  in  one  of  the  trees.  Her 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  step  on  the  gravel-path. 
Her  heart  beat  wildly.  Cordelia  turned  and  remarked 
somewhat  dryly: 

"We  are  not  the  only  late-comers.  There  is  Signer 
Cenari. 

Dorris  looked  at  him.  He  seated  himself  at  a  table 
near  the  entrance  and  took  a  folded  newspaper  from  his 
pocket. 

After  some  minutes'  absent  perusal  of  its  contents,  he 
looked  up,  saw  the  ladies  and  bowed.  But  he  made  no 
attempt  to  join  them.  Cordelia  rose  and  walked  over 
to  him. 

"Silly,  silly,"  she  said,  "we  are  the  only  people  here; 
why  don't  you  join  us?" 

"Ho  sempre  amato  la  vita  solitaria"  he  replied,  as  he 
left  his  table  and  accompanied  her  to  the  other. 

"Don't  fib,"  said  Cordelia,  "Dorris,  what  do  you  think 
Signor  Cenari  just  said  to  me?" 

"I  can't  imagine — unless  he  told  you  that  he  fol- 
lowed us." 

"No,  not  even  that!  He  said  he  has  always  loved  a 
solitary  life." 

"Of  course,"  said  Dorris,  "that's  quite  clear.  You  see 
he's  a  confirmed  bachelor.  I  think  his  mother  must 
have  prophesied  it  when  he  was  quite  a  baby." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  was  his  gay  response,  "if 
you  happen  to  know  any  young  lady  between  the  ages  of 

164 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

eighteen  and  thirty — or,  rather,  twenty-eight,  let  me  be 
presented  to  her.  I  assure  you  they  would  all  turn  me 
down." 

"Then,"  put  in  Cordelia,  "I  am  beyond  the  pale.  Alas, 
and  my  hairs  are  still  brown.  See,  Signor  Cenari,  they 
have  not  even  begun  to  turn." 

Their  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  waiter  who 
placed  the  broiled  chicken  and  Saint  Marceaux  upon  the 
table. 

"Ah!"  and  Cenari's  eyes  opened,  "a  very  excellent 
brand.  If  that  was  your  selection,  Mrs.  Gunter,  you  will 
have  me  proposing  in  a  moment." 

"But,  think,  Signor  Cenari,"  put  in  Dorris,  "think  of 
the  heartless  turn-down  you  would  get." 

She  half  closed  her  eyes  and  looked  at  the  painter. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  Dorris,"  said  Cordelia. 

"Then,"  said  Cenari,  "will  you  do  me  the  honour?" 

They  kept  up  a  little  badinage  which  offended  Dorris. 
She  knew  they  jested,  but  it  hurt  her  to  think  Cenari 
could  be  collected  and  indifferent  when  her  own  heart 
was  throbbing  so  violently. 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  are  you  not  tired  after  that  stren- 
uous swim  of  the  morning?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  really  am;  my  arms  ache  and  my  head  as  well. 
I  hope  a  sip  of  that  champagne  will  make  me  feel  a  little 
livelier.  Oh,  it  is  not  even  opened,  Signor  Cenari,  do 
call  the  garqon" 

She  became  nervous  and  fretful.  Cordelia's  laughter 
seemed  to  be  piercing  her  soul.  She  was  fatigued,  and 
wanted  to  rest.  But  she  heard  always  two  voices — remin- 
iscent, jesting,  delicately  censorious.  She,  indeed,  be- 
longed to  another  generation.  Cenari  in  his  white  flannels 

165 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

looked  so  provokingly  oblivious,  so  sublimely  self-pos- 
sessed, as  if  she  were  removed  entirely  from  the  plane  of 
his  observation.  His  boyish  pallor  was  enhanced  by  the 
darkness  of  eyes  and  the  redness  of  lips.  And  to  some 
extent,  at  least,  she  was  of  his  own  type.  The  idea 
pleased  her.  It  seemed  in  some  elusive  manner  to  bring 
him  nearer — this  decadent  Italian  to  the  Puritan.  What 
a  study  in  contradictions  1  For  it  was  precisely  the  blood 
in  her  veins  which  had  strained  at  the  proverbial  gnat, 
which  caused  intermittent  revolt  against  this  man  who, 
nevertheless,  in  one  way  and  another,  filled  up  so  large  a 
part  of  her  thought.  Dwarfed  against  the  vigorous  man- 
hood of  such  men  as  her  dead  father,  it  was  only  occa- 
sionally that  Dorris  saw  Cenari  stripped  of  his  veneer, 
and  knew  him  for  liar  and  cynic.  She  was  glad,  after 
all,  that  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world  and  not  in  the 
faintest  sense  likely  to  love  unwisely  and  too  well.  She 
was  hearing  his  voice: — 

"To  be  sure,  Mrs.  Gunter;  he  had  an  army  of  Alba- 
nians with  him  there.  We  went  together  to  Sunium, 
Thessaly,  Delphi,  and  most  of  the  accessible  portions  of 
Greece." 

Dorris's  eyes  wandered  beyond  him,  far  out  upon  the 
distant  road.  So  he  had  been  in  her  beloved  Greece, 
and  she  had  never  dreamed  of  it;  and  the  world  believed 
in  telepathy!  He  had  seen  Sunium,  Marathon,  Eleusis, 
Phyle.  Her  footsteps  had  been  in  his,  in  the  land  she 
loved  so  well. 

"If  you  want  to  talk  of  Greece,"  Cordelia  was 
saying,  "here  is  Mrs.  Van  Lennep.  It's  one  of  her 
passions." 

Cenari  was  looking  into  her  eyes  at  last. 

166 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Indeed!"  he  said,  with  an  accent  of  surprise.  "How 
long  ago  were  you  in  Greece?" 

"I  left  in  May." 

"Then  you  know" — 

"I  know  every  inch  of  it,  Signor  Cenari — at  least  every 
inch  I  saw.  I  love  the  red  poppies  of  the  field  of  Mara- 
thon, the  solemn  beauty  of  ^Egina's  temple,  the  honeyed 
recesses  of  Mt.  Hymettus.  But,  signore,  I  love  solitary 
Sunium  better  than  them  all." 

"So  do  I,"  he  said.  "I  went  there  with  friends  in  a 
sailing  vessel  when  a  boy." 

Dorris  opened  her  eyes. 

"We  were  bound  for  Athens,  and  anchored  off  Cape 
Colonna  at  four  o'clock  one  morning.  Gods!  The  sun- 
rise over  that  temple  was  a  sight  one  sees  but  once." 

"How  I  should  love  it,"  murmured  Dorris. 

"Let's  start  off  for  it  now,"  he  laughed. 

They  drifted  back  to  Venice  in  the  afternoon  heat; 
and  though  the  little  trip  had  its  discomforts,  Dorris  was 
supremely  content.  Nevertheless,  she  asked  to  be  left  at 
the  Piazza,  and  when  Cenari  wonderingly  assented,  she 
felt  that  the  indifferent  role  she  was  playing  was  rather 
a  clever  one. 

"When  will  you  pose  again?"  he  inquired  as  she 
stepped  from  the  gondola,  and  she  felt  that  he  was 
asking  her  why  she  took  this  sudden  fancy  to  wander  off 
alone. 

She  nodded  a  good  afternoon  to  Cordelia,  and  frowned 
slightly  at  him.  Then  she  turned  to  walk  on,  interrupt- 
ing the  course  of  sleek,  overfed  pigeons  which  waddled 
in  the  sunlit  space  ahead  of  her. 

She  sought  diversion  in  the  shops  near  by,  and  finally 
bought  a  copy  of  Palma  Vecchio's  "Santa  Barbara,"  but 

167 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

she  could  not  keep  from  her  a  rising  irritation  which 
included  Cordelia  and  Cenari  as  well  as  her  absent  hus- 
band. Why  was  all  the  world  so  utterly  disagreeable? 
Why  was  she  forever  at  odds  with  Fate?  As  she  ap- 
proached the  steps  to  call  a  gondola,  she  felt  that  she 
was  tired  of  nothing  less  than  this  City  of  her  Love! 
Was  life  all  like  this?  She  couldn't  return  to  Cordelia's 
presence  quite  so  soon.  Where  should  she  go?  Then 
she  thought  of  the  original  Santa  Barbara  which  her 
father  had  gone  with  her  to  see  two  years  before.  Accord- 
ingly: "Al  Santa  'Maria  Formosa,"  she  ordered  the 
gondolier. 

The  boat  passed  into  a  narrow  canal  below  Danieli's. 
By  this  time,  Dorris  was  thoroughly  unhappy.  Why  in 
the  world  had  she  come  off  alone  to  visit  a  dismal  church? 
Nevertheless,  when  finally  she  stood  before  the  old  paint- 
ing, the  cool  air  of  the  cathedral  and  the  associations 
which  centered  in  it,  fell  upon  her  spirit  like  balm.  The 
reds  of  the  old  canvas  fascinated  her,  and  she  unrolled 
the  newly  purchased  picture  to  compare  it  with  the  Santa 
Barbara  before  her. 

"Is  she  not  beautiful,  our  Santa  Barbara?"  fell  upon 
her  ears,  and  Dorris  started. 

"Signor  Cenari  1"  she  exclaimed,  petulantly. 

He  bowed  low. 

"My  life  is  not  in  danger  now,  at  any  rate,"  she  said, 
as  he  handed  her  the  photograph  which  had  dropped 
from  her  hands,  "and  I  came  here  to  be  alone." 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  air  of  bland  neutrality. 

"Why  did  you  follow  me?"  she  demanded. 

"I, — follow  you,  madame?  Is  it  not  better  to  say 
that  the  Fate  which  saved  your  life  this  morning,  meets 
you  here — a  Nemesis?" 

168 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"I  am  not  easily  frightened,  signore." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  signora.  I  appreciate  the 
compliment." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to" — 

He  was  smiling  now. 

"Germany,"  she  added,  "for  common  sense?" 

"Could  not  madame  teach  me  here?"  he  asked. 

"The  scientific  side  would  balance  the  romance  which 
lights  up  so  prettily  your  carefully  thought-out  schemes. 
Then  you  would  be  charming,  I  am  sure,  and  don't — oh, 
don't  tell  me  that  you  go  because  I  ask  it."  She  stepped 
outside  to  the  waiting  gondola. 

"May  I  begin  the  journey  to  which  you  condemn  me, 
with  you?"  he  asked. 

Had  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  red  cushions  of  the 
boat,  she  would  not  have  consented,  but  she  raised  them 
to  the  laughter  in  his.  The  desire  that  had  rushed 
through  her  the  night  before,  in  the  garden,  came  again 
with  revivified  force. 

"Yes,"  she  managed  to  say. 


169 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Vex  not  thy  soul  with  dead  philosophy; 
Have  we  not  lips  to  kiss  with,  hearts  to  love, 
and  eyes  to  see ! 

— Panthea. 

That  night  Cordelia  and  Dorris  went  to  the  house  of 
Signora  Malvoni  where  they  were  to  dine.  A  gentle  rain 
was  cooling  the  heated  marble  of  the  palaces,  and  the 
fragrant  mist  was  refreshing  to  them  both  as  they  were 
being  rowed  to  Casa  Malvoni.  Dorris  out  of  sheer  bra- 
vado was  wearing  a  soft  red  crepe  de  chine,  cut  in  simple 
flowing  lines,  her  only  ornament  the  large  rose  against 
the  gold  of  her  hair.  There  was  something  diabolic  about 
the  gown  —  at  least  when  worn  as  Dorris  wore  it,  and 
Cordelia  had  begged  her  to  choose  another  which  was 
not  the  shade  of  her  lips  and  did  not  make  her  shoulders 
look  like  carved  marble. 

"The  contrast  of  red  and  gold  makes  you  look  like 
the  Spanish  flag,"  she  pleaded,  and  the  girl  was  more  de- 
termined than  ever. 

If  it  was  so  fantastic,  it  would  surely  delight  Paolo; 
and  all  the  way  from  the  Spechio-Torni,  Dorris  had  seen 
his  faint  smile  on  her  entrance  into  the  drawing-room. 
When  at  last  she  found  herself  before  her  hostess,  some- 
thing gripped  her  heart,  for  she  knew  instinctively  that 
he  was  not  there!  Then  he  would  not  come — he  would 
not  come.  For  punctuality  was  regarded  as  his  sole  vir- 
tue, and  genius  may  dispense  even  with  that.  Neverthe- 
less, she  lived  in  a  fever  of  expectation  until  the  entrance 

170 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

of  Malcolm  Forrest — unaccompanied.  The  two  artists 
invariably  came  to  social  functions  together. 

A  mad  longing  to  leave  these  rooms — to  go  to  him 
and  ask  forgiveness  for  her  rudeness  of  the  afternoon, 
surged  through  her. 

When  they  were  seated  at  the  table,  she  overheard  Mr. 
Forrest  say  to  Signora  Malvoni, — 

"He  simply  wouldn't  come.  How  nice  to  be  his  under- 
study occasionally,  but  I  fear  I  do  not  look  the  part." 

"Nevertheless,"  drawled  Signora  Malvoni  with  a  comi- 
cal air  of  resignation,  "no  doubt  I  shall  be  stupid  enough 
to  invite  him  again." 

So,  it  seemed  that  he  had  intended  to  come,  probably 
before  his  interview  with  her  at  the  chiesa  Santa  Maria 
Formosa.  She  had  been  rude  to  him,  she  knew  it  very 
well — and  after  his  saving  of  her  life,  too,  at  the  risk 
of  his  own!  No  wonder  he  was  hurt.  She  was  sure 
that  it  was  all  over,  that  he  did  not  wish  ever  to  meet 
her  again. 

How  this  company  bored  her.  What  inane  conversa- 
tion, what  vapid  airs — what  men!  It  was  insufferable. 
Paolo  was  saying  once  more, — "The  Fate  which  saved 
your  life  this  morning  meets  you  here — a  Nemesis!" 

Nemesis  surely  had  overtaken  her  if  she  were  never- 
more to  see  him. 

Signer  Pavolo,  who  for  the  second  time  had  taken 
her  in  to  dinner,  she  completely  ignored. 

"Well,  signora,"  she  heard  across  the  table,  "it  is  the 
consolation  of  men,  this  drinking  to  the  absent  one." 

Involuntarily,  Dorris  raised  her  glass,  and  set  it  down 
untasted.  This  was,  indeed,  disillusion.  She  was  filled 
with  chagrin.  To  think  that  she,  Dorris  Bedford,  of 

171 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

gentle  lineage,  as  delicately  bred  as  a  Roman  princess, 
should  allow  herself  to  be  swayed  by  the  machinations 
of  a  Cenari ! 

Though  outwardly  self-possessed,  she  was  working  her- 
self into  a  nervous  frenzy.  Here  at  this  table  with  the 
eyes  of  the  world  upon  her,  that  dreaded  mood  with 
which  she  had  wrestled  in  secret  many,  many  times,  was 
forcing  its  will  upon  her.  She  summoned  her  will  to  the 
rescue.  Once  for  a  heart-beat  she  gripped  the  sides  of  her 
chair.  It  was  passing — it  was  passing.  She  would  soon 
be  herself  again. 

And  Pride  was  coming  to  the  aid  of  Will,  it  seemed, 
for  at  last  she  could  smile ;  she  was  conquering  that  irrita- 
tion which  had  goaded  her  almost  to  speech. 

After  dinner,  she  sought  Signora  Malvoni. 

"I  am  completely  worn  out,"  she  said;  "allow  me  to 
excuse  myself.  And  will  you  not  explain  to  Mrs.  Gunter 
when  she  is  ready  to  leave  that  I  thought  I  would  be 
much  better  at  home,  and  disliked  to  spoil  her  evening?" 

Her  hostess  made  a  polite  move  to  detain  her.  Sudden 
indisposition  was  often  as  suddenly  dispelled.  A  glass 
of  wine  would  be  sent  to  her  in  the  library;  it  was  doubt- 
less but  a  matter  of  a  few  moments'  rest.  She  would 
not  even  be  missed  from  the  company. 

But  Dorris,  as  usual,  had  her  own  way,  and  it  was 
Signor  Malvoni's  gondola  which  took  her  to  the  Spechio- 
Torni. 

She  mounted  the  marble  staircase  with  vague  restless- 
ness, and  found  Felno  in  the  rotunda.  An  unaccountable 
impulse  that  had  rather  suggested  than  defined  itself  dur- 
ing dinner  grew  suddenly  into  purpose  at  the  sight  of 
the  gondolier.  On  him,  at  least,  she  might  rely,  and 

172 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

picking  up  her  skirts,  she  ran  down  the  staircase,  Felno 
following  at  her  heels. 

"To  the  Palazzo  Gianelli,"  she  cried,  suddenly  turn- 
ing upon  him,  and  once  more  she  was  upon  the  water. 

As  they  approached  the  main  entrance  to  the  palace 
in  the  Via  Camberino,  she  debated  whether  it  were  better 
to  enter  there,  where  the  iron  portals  stood  open  so  invit- 
ingly, or  by  way  of  the  garden-gate  on  the  Giudecca. 
Then  she  ordered  the  gondolier  ahead. 

She  found  herself  in  a  moment  shivering  nervously  in 
the  court  with  the  palace  looming  up  with  every  appear- 
ance of  desertion.  She  mounted  the  stairs  which  seemed 
interminable,  and  saw  high  up  in  the  balcony  the  figure  of 
Cenari's  gondolier  standing  like  a  sentinel  on  guard. 

He  bowed  perfunctorily  as  she  drew  near,  and  stood 
as  at  attention,  but  with  a  slight  reservation  of  respect 
in  his  attitude  which  sent  the  blood  to  Dorris's  throat. 

"Signer  Cenari  is  at  your  service,  signorina,"  he  said, 
with  an  emphasis  on  the  last  word  which  might  easily 
be  offensive. 

Dorris  drew  herself  up  with  sudden  hauteur,  but  tim- 
idity overcame  her,  and  she  followed  the  man  to  the 
studio  door  upon  which  he  knocked  twice  without  re- 
sponse. Then  he  flung  it  open,  and  Dorris  preceded  him 
into  the  dimly  lighted  apartment.  A  single  candle  splut- 
tered in  one  of  the  candelabra,  casting  vague  shadows 
upon  the  tiger  skins. 

"If  the  signorina  will  be  seated,  I  will  find  Signor 
Cenari,"  said  the  gondolier,  and  disappeared. 

She  was  alone,  and  frightened.  The  animal  skins 
looked  barbaric  in  the  half  light;  it  was  the  atmosphere 
of  the  East  wearing  an  aspect  of  primeval  savagery. 

173 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

The  hangings  at  the  portal  parted,  and  Cenari  entered. 
His  blase  air  startled  her  with  a  sense  of  overwhelming 
doubt.  As  she  looked  at  him,  she  wondered  why  he  did 
not  speak,  why  this  appearance  of  utter  weariness.  Then 
he  stood  perfectly  still  as  if  under  the  influence  of  sud- 
den shock. 

"Mrs.  Van  Lennep — Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  good  evening. 
Pardon  me,  I  am  pleased  to  see  you.  But  what  sweet 
folly!  If  some  one  has  seen  you  enter — who  might  have 
seen  your  gondola  ?  But  why  should  we  borrow  trouble  ? 
The  deuce  is,  all  Venice  knows  Felno.  I  could  not  dream 
it  was  you.  After  all,  you  really  must  let  me  take  you 
back." 

"Quite  like  a  man,  Signer  Cenari,"  Dorris  smiled  at 
him,  "you  have  misconstrued  my  errand  here.  I  have 
come  like  a  penitent  in  sackcloth  to  get  absolution — from 
you!  I  was  so  rude  to  you  to-day.  Believe  me,  I  am 
very  sorry.  Can  you  forgive?" 

The  black  cloak  fallen  from  her  shoulders  revealed 
the  cardinal  gown,  the  white  arms. 

He  stared. 

"My  God,"  he  blurted,  "you're  a  baby.  Would  you 
risk  your  reputation  to  come  here  to-night  to  ask  for- 
giveness— of  me?  How  like  a  sweet  child.  If  all  Venice 
could  view  it  in  its  true  light.  But  you  should  not  have 
come  as  a  beautiful  devil,  you  should  not  have  dropped 
your  coat." 

He  sat  down  on  a  rug  beside  her  and  studied  her  face. 

"Bewitching,  beautiful  devil  1  Did  you  come  to  tempt 
me?"  he  asked. 

"I  only  came,  Paolo,  because  a  something  irresistible 
forced  me  to.  I  am  sorry,  and  I  was  so  troubled  about  it, 

174 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

that  I  couldn't  eat  my  dinner.  I  left  Casa  Malvoni,  went 
to  Torni  to  get  Felno  and  came  here.  Voilal  Say  you 
have  forgiven!" 

She  moved  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin 
in  her  right  hand,  and  smiled  adorably. 

"You  are  unfair,"  he  said,  "to  attack  me  in  that  girlish 
way.  I  can  make  no  stand  whatever." 

"What  sort  of  stand  would  you  care  to  make?"  she 


"That  of  a  faithful  dog." 

"A  really  faithful  dog?" 

"Precisely,  you  have  it,"  he  said. 

"And  how  would  you  begin?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,  I  beg  you  to  leave." 

"Am  I  so  dangerous  as  that?" 

"Well,  I  will  at  least  light  the  other  candle  for  my 
own  protection." 

"I  acquiesce,"  she  said,  "if  you  promise  to  burn  no 
incense  in  those  charming  censers." 

He  picked  up  a  long  wax  taper,  and  lighted  the  other 
candlestick. 

"You  see,"  he  commented,  "there  is  quite  a  light  now. 
That  gold  hair  of  yours  will  not  be  such  a  contrast  to 
the  pale  face  and  throat." 

"Paolo,  I  am  going  to  see  you  no  more.  That  por- 
trait of  mine  is  never  to  be  finished." 

He  knelt  down  beside  her. 

"Of  course  you  won't  see  me  —  till  the  next  time,"  he 
laughed. 

"Please  try  to  take  me  seriously,"  she  said.  "It  is  to 
say  good-bye  to  you  also  that  I  have  come." 


175 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"You  dear  little  girl,"  he  murmured,  "of  course  I'm 
going  to  finish  it,  and  of  course  I'm  going  to  know  you. 
Don't  laugh  at  me  like  that." 

"But  I  really  meant  it,"  she  said  seriously. 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  and  kissed  its  fingers.  The 
subtle  charm  of  his  magnetism  yielded  its  power  at  the 
touch  of  his  lips. 

"Why,  why,  why  did  you  come,  Dorris?" 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  looked  at  him.  "Why? — 
the  eternal  question  of  the  ages.  Let  me  see  the  gold 
room,"  she  said. 

He  opened  the  door  for  her,  and  lit  the  candles  on 
the  wall.  It  was  very  effective  but  she  would  not  enter. 

"You  may  tell  me  the  third  stanza  here,"  she  said. 
She  took  her  position  on  one  of  the  rugs  near  a  censer. 

He  knelt  once  more  before  her  and  kissed  both  her 
hands. 

"Oh,  Dorris,"  he  said,  "the  faint,  sweet  perfume  of 
you — Dorris!  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  your  carved 
red  lips.  I  kissed  them  once.  Let  me  kiss  them  again. 
Any  hope  I  might  cherish  is  vanity,  I  know." 

He  was  gently  pulling  her  hands  as  if  to  make  her 
kneel  before  him.  She  resisted  and  threw  her  head 
back. 

"Oh,  Paolo,"  she  cried,  "do  not  draw  me  on — and 
on.  Paolo,  can't  you  see  I  am  fighting,  struggling,  against 
this  new,  unwelcome  thing?  No,  dear,  I  will  not  kiss 
you.  I  will  not.  Don't  you  think  that  I,  also,  want  to 
taste  your  lips  again?  I  am  strong,  though,  as  woman 
must  be,  and  you  are  strong  and  cruel.  Paolo,  let  me 
go,  while  you  still  have  an  atom  of  respect  for  me.  Let 
me  go  I" 

176 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"I  want  to  kiss  you,"  he  said,  "I  must  kiss  you.  I 
will  kiss  you,"  artfully  drawing  her  down  to  him. 

She  threw  her  head  back  as  if  to  evade  his  kiss.  He 
crushed  her  lips  to  his  own  but  found  them  unresponsive. 

"Answer  my  caresses,"  he  breathed  passionately,  kiss- 
ing her  ear  the  while  with  delicate  art;  "don't  you  want 
to  kiss  me?  Then  I  will  cease." 

He  loosened  his  clasp.  She  threw  her  arms  forward 
upon  his  shoulder,  looking  longingly  into  his  eyes. 

"Give  me  your  mouth,  Paolo,"  she  said  at  last. 

He  took  the  crimson  gift  and  drained  it  to  its  lees. 
Then  he  made  free  of  her  lovely  neck  and  arms,  her 
closed  eyes,  her  hair,  her  delicate  throat.  Once  more 
he  sought  her  parted  mouth  and  breathed  its  perfume. 

"Oh,  Paolo,"  she  cried,  "Paolo,  stop,  you  must  let 
me  go !  You  must  let  me  go,  this  is  folly,  this  is  madness, 
but  what  divine  madness.  My  pulses  ache,  ache — let 
me  go." 

"Tell  me,  tell  me — you" — 

"No,  I  shall  never  tell  you  that.     It  is  not  so." 

She  endeavoured  to  throw  back  her  head  and  uttered 
a  faint  cry.  He  held  her  face  in  his  hands,  his  eyes  in 
hers,  his  breath  upon  her  lips. 

"But  I  desire  you  so.  Voglio  tante  cose!  Gods !  You 
are  as  beautiful  as  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins." 

He  kissed  her  ear  again,  and  the  soft  throat  below  it. 
The  rose  fell  from  Dorris's  hair  to  the  floor,  and  she 
whispered, — "T'amo." 

He  was  holding  her  in  an  embrace  that  seemed  to 
wound  her — to  stifle. 

"Let  me  breathe,  Paolo.  You  take  my  breath  away," 
she  murmured.  "What  a  fool  I  am.  Why  did  I  come?" 

177 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

He  did  not  loosen  his  clasp,  but  strained  her  slender 
body  in  his  arms  till  she  felt  the  fast  rhythmic  beating  of 
his  heart  against  her  own. 

"You  love?    Yet  you  will  not  give  all?" 

"Paolo,  how  can  you  tempt  me?"  she  whispered  bro- 
kenly. "I  am  not  a  child  of  snow.  I  am  a  woman  of 
fire  and  dreams.  Paolo,  promise  me  you  will  always 
have  the  greater  strength  to  save  me.  Remember,  t'amo." 

"I  am  a  brute,  Dorris,  but  I  am  of  the  South.  I  love 
and  hate  intensely.  You  are  cold — cold." 

"Don't  be  cruel,  Paolo.  You  say  I  am  cold?  You 
dare  to  say  I  am  cold  after  the  kisses  I  have  given  you?" 

She  picked  up  his  hands,  and  kissed  them  till  his  flesh 
stung  beneath  her  mouth.  Then  she  caught  his  lips  in 
a  hard  and  cruel  pressure. 

"Cold?  "O,  siete  cattivo — sono  infelice!"  she  gasped. 
"I,  cold!" 

She  fell  exhausted  against  his  shoulder  and  looked 
up  at  him  as  to  a  god. 

"Paolo,  dear,"  she  whispered,  "it  is  not  that  I  haven't 
the  desire  to  give,  but  that  I  have  the  strength  to  with- 
hold,— Yes,  the  strength  to  withhold.  What  would  de- 
sire be,  without  it,  Paolo?" 

"Nothing  matters  to  me  but  that  pomegranate  mouth 
of  yours,  like  Rossetti's  'Pandora.'  Its  sinewy  sweetness 
laid  on  mine  turns  my  brain  to  fire.  I  am  not  a  man 
who  knows  himself  when  I  feel  its  burning  pressure." 

"And  we  must  say  good-bye.  I  shall  never  see  you 
again" — 

"Save  by  accident,"  he  said,  softly. 

"Save  by  accident,"  she  repeated.  "I  am  stronger 
than  temptation,  but  you  had  almost  made  me  forget  it. 

178 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

I  had  completely  forgotten  when  I  came  that  I  must 
go  back  for  Cordelia." 

"Indeed I    Cordelia!    Ah!" 

"Don't  Paolo.  I  could  not  fight  against  coming  here 
to-night  or  against  those  kisses,  because — because  I" — 

She  hastily  brushed  back  a  stray  lock  of  hair  which 
tumbled  into  her  eyes  again. 

"Because  you,  what,  signora?" 

"Signore!"  she  cried.  "But,  Paolo,  you  are  not  angry. 
You  know,  you  must  remember  that  it  is  because  I — oh, 
what  is  the  use?  Good-bye." 

"You  mean  good-night,  Dorris.  What  is  the  caress 
of  to-day  worth  if  the  frown  of  to-morrow  has  a  lien 
upon  it?  Love  doesn't  think,  it  burns  down  barriers,  'it 
casteth  out  fear,'  it  is  far  reaching,  it  is  all-seeing — and, 
it  promises!" 

"You  would  not  spare  me.  Do  not  urge  me  on  and 
on,  lest  you  lose  even  the  wish  I  have, — that  I  were  free 
to  give.  Now,  Paolo,  I  must  go.  I  must  go  at  once." 

He  stooped  to  pick  up  her  rose  which  had  fallen,  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips  in  a  passionate  kiss.  Dorris  smiled 
sadly  and  held  out  her  hand  for  it,  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  mine,  signora,"  and  he  held  the  curtains  apart 
for  her.  Then  as  she  looked  back  at  him  once  more, 
he  held  the  rose  up  to  view.  "Marchesa,  this  flower  will 
fade,  and  so  will  its  lovely  owner — some  day.  Its  petals 
will  dry,  its  fragrance  will  vanish.  Yet  when  it  is  faded, 
I  shall  keep  it  for  the  memories  that  will  ever  cling  to 
it  of  a  sweet,  misty  night  in  Venice,  a  beautiful  woman  in 
the  full  glory  of  her  springtime,  and  just  a  red,  red  rose." 


179 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 
Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

— Browning. 

Felno  rowed  with  unaccustomed  rapidity,  arriving  at 
the  steps  of  the  Casa  Malvoni  before  the  guests  had  de- 
parted. Dorris  waited  under  the  black  canopy  until  Cor- 
delia came.  The  spell  of  Cenari's  presence — of  the  hour 
just  past — was  over  her  still,  suffusing  her  with  a  glow 
in  which  the  sense  of  shame  was  obscured.  The  realiza- 
tion that  it  was  dishonour,  that  she  was  no  longer  even 
striving  against  the  soft  delights  of  this  growing  love, 
was  holding  her  in  a  mighty  thralldom;  and  the  sense 
of  wifely  duty,  of  womanly  self-approval  was  as  water 
unto  wine  in  comparison.  The  powerful  force  of  this 
Italian's  magnetism  rose  up  against  the  bitter  loneliness 
of  her  life.  Could  she  adjust  the  balance?  It  was  to 
such  temptations  as  this  that  women  had  yielded,  and 
for  which  she  had  been  cold  and  narrow  enough  to  despise 
them.  No  longer  did  it  hurt  her  pride  to  know  that 
Paolo  had  quickened  her  into  a  knowledge  so  full  of  bit- 
ter sweetness.  How  lonely  she  felt,  how  unloved,  how 
dumb  before  the  world's  naked  scorn !  For  she  felt  the 
eyes  of  the  censorious  searching  out  her  secret,  and  blazon- 
ing it.  This  was  what  life  meant;  this  was  what  mar- 
riage to  Henry  Van  Lennep  had  closed  to  her  and  sealed. 
Why  should  not  her  husband  have  been  the  one  to  waken 
dormant  possibilities,  to  stir  her  senses  to  music — the 

180 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

very  poetry  of  passion?  It  surely  was  no  fault  of  hers 
that  she  had  been  sleeping,  with  this  joy  hushed  like 
something  dead.  Only  the  striking  of  the  chord  which 
Cenari  had  mastered  had  lashed  rebellion,  and  out  of 
morbid  yearning  had  produced  this  wondrous  joy  of  life. 
How  dull,  inanimate  and  colourless  she  must  have  seemed 
to  the  whole  world  of  beings,  who,  nevertheless,  pretended 
not  to  know  this  thing.  No  wonder  she  had  seemed 
incomprehensible;  no  wonder  Cordelia  watched  anxiously 
to  understand  her  brooding.  Before  she  had  met  him,  the 
motif  of  tragedy  itself  had  puzzled  her.  What  was 
it  in  him  that  had  cornered  her  imagination?  forced  her 
to  look  into  her  heart,  and  whisper  to  her  inmost  con- 
sciousness, "This  is  what  makes  men  and  women  endure 
heartache  and  longing  —  just  the  hope  that  one  will 
share!'' 

Of  course,  she  had  a  fight  before  her;  she  might  win 
or  not.  But  she  must  fight;  that  seemed  inevitable,  even 
in  such  a  moment  as  this.  She  might  become  a  nun,  she 
might  take  up  her  wifely  burden,  by  steeping  herself  in 
all  the  puritanical  books  which  denied  the  existence  of 
this  thing  at  the  root  of  existence;  she  might  come  to  the 
threshold  of  negation — but  would  she  cross  it,  and  deny? 
It  was  the  unthinkableness  of  this  proposition  that  nerved 
her  to  fight — for  the  code  which  keeps  society  together. 
Even  if  she  were  to  die,  she  felt  that  his  memory  would 
hover  over  her,  that  his  kisses  would  endow  her  with 
the  power  to  feel. 

Why  had  she  married?  why  had  she  disregarded  Cor- 
delia's wishes?  Then  might  she  not  have  wandered  in 
honour  through  a  world  of  beauty  with  Paolo  by  her 
side?  The  everlasting  might-have-been  of  the  poet  had 

181 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

overtaken  her,  too?  Of  what  use  was  it — regret?  Would 
Cenari  have  loved  her  then?  Ah !  did  he  love  her  now? 

Fear  stalked  with  mockery  straight  into  the  fire  of 
her  passion,  and  blew  it  as  with  a  bellows.  If  he  did  not 
love  her!  He  had  not  told  her  so,  and  the  possibility 
that  he  did  not  was  so  cruelly  potent,  that  it  must,  if 
dwelt  upon,  make  her  mad!  What  else  had  she  to 
live  for?  She,  Dorris  Bedford,  who  had  scorned  the 
weak,  to  care  now  chiefly  for  the  penalty  of  weakness ! 

Worn  out  by  the  struggle  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion 
by  reasoning  in  a  circle,  she  burst  into  sobs — of  irrita- 
tion. Why  in  the  world  didn't  Cordelia  come? 

The  voices  of  the  departing  guests  smote  her  as  with 
a  lash.  Why  those  light,  merry  voices  when  she  was  in 
such  utter  misery — a  misery  a  thousand  times  more  hope- 
less than  the  agony  she  had  felt  when  face  to  face  with 
her  father's  death.  A  woman  of  flesh  and  blood  whom 
life  had  used  so  cruelly, — what  fiends  had  rounded  out 
her  horoscope? 

Tactful  Cordelia,  who  came  very  soon,  took  her 
place  beside  the  sobbing  girl  without  a  word! 

"Cordy,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't!"  she  sobbed  as  the 
dear  friend  took  her  head  and  pressed  it  tenderly  against 
her  shoulder. 

Mrs.  Gunter  soothed  her. 

"The  nerves  play  all  sorts  of  capers  with  us,  Dorris. 
They  are  not  to  be  petted,  but  dominated  by  the  mind. 
Rise  above  it,  my  brave  girl." 

"Nerves,  nerves — as  if  that  were  all!" 

Cordelia  looked  pityingly  down  upon  the  golden  head, 
and  knew  by  the  lessening  of  the  sobs  that  the  paroxysm 
was  passing. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Softly,  dear  girl!  It's  good  to  have  a  cry  now  and 
then.  I  think  you've  needed  one  for  a  long,  long  time. 
The  day  has  been  rather  strenuous,  you  see.  And  now 
you're  going  to  sleep  until  oh,  so  late!  you've  no  idea; 
and  I  will  sleep  with  you,  in  case  of  restlessness." 

The  girl  nestled  like  a  child  against  her  side. 

"It's  sweet  to  have  you  here,  Cordelia.  You  have 
always  been  so  good  to  me — so  very  good,  Cordelia." 

"Let  me  be  better.  You  can  always  tell  me  the  deep- 
est, most  sacred  secrets  of  that  young  heart  of  yours.  I 
have  gone  through  much,  baby  mine.  I  will  understand." 

The  impulse  to  tell  Cordelia  all,  swept  over  her,  but 
she  fought  it.  If  she  were  ever  to  tell  her  friend,  it  could 
not  be  in  such  an  hour  as  this,  sacred  to  the  memory 
of  his  caress, — to  the  hour  of  his  kiss. 

She  slept  that  night,  peacefully,  after  a  fatiguing  day; 
and  it  was  sweet  as  she  felt  the  softness  of  rest  stealing 
upon  her,  to  know  that  Cordelia  was  with  her  in  pro- 
tecting tenderness. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  she  awakened 
to  see  Cordelia  standing  before  her  with  a  little  tray. 

"You  dear,  sweet  thing,"  she  breathed,  "you  have 
brought  me  my  breakfast  yourself." 

"Yes — and  here's  a  letter.  It  was  delivered  by  a  gon- 
dolier this  morning." 

As  Mrs.  Gunter  spoke,  she  put  the  service  of  chocolate 
and  rolls  near  Dorris,  while  the  girl  feverishly  picked  up 
the  blue  envelope  she  knew  could  be  used  by  only 
one, — Paolo!  As  she  broke  the  seal,  Cordelia,  delicate 
as  ever,  stole  away.  Dorris  waited  a  moment  with  vio- 
lently beating  heart;  then  read, — 


183 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

PALAZZO  GIANELLI,  VIA  CAMBERING. 

My  dearest  D orris: — 

Into  the  morning,  Dorris,  I  thought  of  you,  sweetheart, 
and  I  want  you  to  forget  some  things.  You  know  what. 
It  has  all  stirred  my  conscience,  and  troubled  me  so !  And 
that  we  may  cast  it  ever  out  of  remembrance,  grant  me 
something  that  will  give  me  the  same  pleasure  to  receive 
it  will  give  you  ease  to  grant,  "one  more  last  ride  with 
me."  Let  me  take  you  again  to  the  Brenta  Valley  and 
the  old  villas  along  its  banks.  Let  me  hear  your  voice, 
and  hope  a  vain  hope — only  once  more ! 

In  memory  of  your  confession  of  last  night,  grant  me 
this  desire.  Let  us  go  in  the  afternoon  so  that  we  may 
see  the  sunset  and  come  back  across  the  lagoon  in  the 
twilight  haze.  The  day  is  typical.  My  thoughts  are 
with  you  as  you  wake  to  read  this  letter.  I  love  you 
and  cannot  cease  to  love  you — no,  not  even  with  my  life, 
for  I  should  always  breathe  the  subtle  sweetness  of  you. 

I  do  not  ask  for  a  hope,  nor  even  the  shadow  of  one, 
but  only  the  shadow  of  a  shadow !  Ride  by  my  side  again 
over  there,  across  the  green  fields  into  the  sunset. 

I  feel  your  mouth.     I  see  your  smile. 

Je  t'embrasse  encore. 

She  kissed  the  letter  and  smiled.  It  was  the  first  love- 
letter  she  had  ever  received,  and  she  a  wife!  She  thought 
of  what  was  her  due,  of  the  sweetness  denied  her  because 
of  her  marriage;  and  of  her  dreams!  Here  was  a  letter 
from  the  man  she  loved,  couched  in  terms  of  love,  and 
he  even  said  he  loved  her.  This  celebrated  man  wrote 
her  a  love-letter,  this  genius  wrote  that  he  loved  her.  She 

184 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

re-read  it.  How  proud  she  was  that  it  was  she,  of  all 
the  women  in  Venice,  whom  he  adored.  And  the  past 
years  must  have  been  as  lonely  as  these  few  later  ones 
she  had  known,  for  all  this  time  he  had  been  waiting 
for  her  to  come  into  his  life,  and  seal  his  fame  with 
the  mystery  of  their  mutual  passion. 

"  'I  feel  your  mouth.  I  see  your  smile.  Je  tfembrasse 
encore!'  "  she  repeated  softly.  "Well,  it  is  the  same  with 
me,  too,  dear.  I  see  your  red  lips  smile,  and  I  kiss  you 
again,  again." 

Forgetting  her  breakfast,  forgetting  that  Cordelia 
would  soon  come  in,  she  sat  down  to  write: 

PALAZZO  SPECHIO-TORNI. 
Paolo  dearest: — 

Your  sweet  letter  has  come.  Ah,  the  pleasure  it  gives 
me.  It  even  soothes  the  pain  I  felt  last  night  on  leaving 
you.  Ride  to-day?  No,  Paolo,  dear,  not  to-day,  but  to- 
morrow. We  will  ride  together,  and  we  shall  be  side  by 
side.  Ride  on !  Ride  on ! 

"  'What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old,  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity; 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 
Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride.'" 

There  is  the  last  stanza  of  Browning's  "Last  Ride  To- 
gether," and  you  and  I  shall  have  one.  The  sweetness 
of  the  hope,  I  would  keep  with  me  one  whole  day;  and 
though  it  gives  me  something  to  look  forward  to,  I  shall 
te  haunted  by  the  possibility  that  it  may  rain  or  some- 
thing happen  to  prevent. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

Paolo,  the  love  I  bear  you  is  so  wonderful  that  I  can- 
not measure  the  insight  it  has  given  me  into  things; 
the  most  mysterious  part  of  it  all  to  me  is  that  it  has 
proved  to  me  the  sweetness  of  renunciation.  All  my 
life,  Paolo,  I  shall  be  with  you  in  spirit,  all  my  life  the 
remembrance  of  having  known  you  will  help  other  things. 
At  any  rate  I  have  not  missed  the  knowledge  of  what 
might  have  made  me  happy.  Oh,  why  couldn't  the 
greatest  possible  happiness  come  to  you  and  me?  God 
was  wise,  perhaps,  to  bring  this  to  me  so  late  in  life; 
years  ago,  the  happiness  would  surely  have  killed  me.  I 
used  to  be  so  glad  that  I  was  pretty,  for  beautiful  women 
are  said  to  spin  the  web  of  their  own  fate;  but  if  God 
began  by  showering  me  with  His  great  gift  of  beauty, 
someway  I  have  turned  the  purpose,  and  this  divine  con- 
ception of  His,  is  the  very  weapon  which  is  spoiling 
everything.  The  hours  spent  away  from  you  are  so  un- 
endurable. It  is  all  so  new  to  me,  this  utter  groping  in 
the  dark  to  settle  upon  a  purpose,  that  I  cannot  grasp 
its  meaning.  The  stars  blink  up  in  the  skies  so  unheed- 
ingly,  and  all  the  palaces  and  all  the  dead  romance  in 
this  city  that  I  love,  have  no  longer  any  sort  of  meaning 
to  me,  except  to  remind  me  that  I  love  you,  that  I  love 
and  love  and  love  you! 

As  the  years  go  on,  I  wonder  if  all  this  may  not  change 
me  into  some  one  else — I  mean,  whether  the  spirit  within 
me  can  remain  the  same  amid  the  hope  and  the  battle. 
I  have  never  lived,  I  have  spoiled  everything  with  my 
own  hands,  and  it  is  all  my  own  fault  that  it  is  all  so 
hard  and  terrible  for  you. 

Let  us  be  thankful,  just  now,  though,  that  love  has 
come  to  us  at  last!  We  have  felt  it  in  its  calmness  and 

186 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

in  its  fury;  we  have  its  roses,  and  may  be  crowned  with 
its  lilies.  I  hope  it  will  not  make  you  so  unhappy  that 
you  cannot  paint,  because  I  know  how  it  must  comfort 
you  to  be  able  to  busy  yourself  with  other  things.  With 
me,  the  madness  of  thinking  of  you  grows  sometimes 
into  tragedy. 

To-morrow  if  the  weather  is  fine,  we  will  ride,  you 
and  I.  Ah,  Paolo,  I  know  of  no  phrase  so  sweet  as  thine 

with  which  to  close  this  letter.  ~ 

DORRIS. 

Then  she  read  the  letter  over,  its  every  line  staring  at 
her  in  mocking  criticism.  It  was  so  loosely  constructed ;  the 
sentences  hitched.  It  was  so  cold.  She  tore  it  into  frag- 
ments, and  walked  the  room. 

"How  can  one  write  when  one  feels  like  this?  Words 
are  for  thoughts,  and  thoughts  are  mere  gibes  at  feeling." 

She  walked  on  aimlessly,  and  at  last  found  herself  be- 
fore the  Venus  in  that  wonderful  bath-room.  With  an 
instinctive  sense  of  companionship,  she  put  her  arms  about 
the  statue,  and  said, — 

"Venus,  queen  of  beauty,  queen  of  love.  You  have 
sent  me  these  two  precious  gifts,  but  there  is  a  penalty 
for  both.  Venus,  if  there  be  a  way,  ever  so  hard,  to 
take  this  penalty  away — Why  do  you  smile  at  me  like 
that?  You  were  made  for  many  lovers,  and  I  who  am 
tied  to  one,  bound  to  one  hand  and  foot — and  one  whom 
I  can  never  love.  I  will  resist  the  madness.  I  desire  this 
man  whom  I  love,  yet  I  may  not  possess  him.  Is  this 
why  you  gave  me  beauty,  moulded  me  into  your  own 
form?  Oh,  Venus,  you  are  cruel,  cruel." 

She  re-entered  her  room,  and  thought  she  had  missed 
something  or  other — was  it  a  letter?  Then  she  laughed 

187 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

as  she  glanced  at  her  untouched  breakfast.  Cordelia 
would  say,  after  that,  that  there  was  no  doubt,  she  was 
in  love.  The  chocolate  was  quite  cold,  but  she  enjoyed 
it  nevertheless.  Then  she  turned  to  her  pen  once  more. 

"Dear  Paolo,"  was  what  she  wrote,  "I  will  be  ready 
to-day  at  three  to  ride  with  you.  Yours,  Dorris." 

Cordelia  came  in  just  as  she  had  finished. 

"Well,  girlie,"  she  said,  "what  are  you  doing  to-day?" 

"Riding  with  Paolo,  Cordelia." 

"Dorris I    Don't,  don't,  don't!    I  beg  of  you,  don't." 

"There !  You're  nagging  again.  Trot  along  now,  and 
write  to  some  of  those  friends  both  you  and  he  enjoy." 

"Dorris,  Dorris,  how  can  you  say  such  catty  things 
to  me.  I  mean  it,  Dorris.  I  ask  you  not  to  go." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  will  not  hurt  you,  dear,  by  going  into  detail,  but 
I  do  ask  you  to  stay  with  me." 

"What's  your  reason?" 

"The  gossip  is  rather  unkind,  Dorris.  It  is  wise  to 
observe  the  conventions." 

"There  you  go  again.  Conventions !  conventions ! 
What  do  I  care  about  conventions?  What  do  I  care 
what  people  say  about  me?  I  tell  you  it  is  nothing  to 
me,  nothing." 

"I  have  given  up  a  great  deal  for  you  since  I  have 
known  you.  Won't  you  make  a  sacrifice  for  me — just 
one?" 

Dorris  looked  at  her. 

"Let  me  think,  Cordelia;  you  ask  a  great  deal,"  she 
said. 

"But  these  are  the  only  things  worth  giving  up,  Dor- 
ris, really." 

188 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"No,  Cordelia,  I  remain  firm.     I  go." 

"Then  you  oblige  me  to  tell  you  something  that  you 
won't  like.  Do  you  know  that  Lady  Blanchard  has  had 
a  detective  following  you  and,  and — and  this  painter?" 

Dorris  laughed  outright. 

"What  a  novel  way  for  you  to  refer  to  Cenari — for  I 
presume  you  have  reference  to  him." 

"I  am  not  playing  with  you,  Dorris.  I  mean  Cenari, 
of  course." 

"Then  will  you  mind  giving  me  your  room  just  now 
in  preference  to  your  company?" 

"I  will  hide  your  habit.     I  will.     I  will." 

Dorris  stared  at  her  cruelly. 

"I  hate*  you,  I  hate — and  hate  you,"  she  cried. 


189 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

For  this  is  Wisdom, — to  love,  to  live, 
To  take  what  Fate  or  the  gods  may  give, 
To  ask  no  question,  to  make  no  prayer, — 
To  kiss  the  lips  and  caress  the  hair. 

— India's  Love  Lyrics. 

For  the  second  time,  Dorris  and  Paolo  were  walking 
their  horses  along  the  road  from  Chioggia  toward  the 
Brenta  Valley.  The  heat  of  the  day  was  modified  by  the 
occasional  breeze  from  the  north. 

"Paolo,  have  you  ever  read  Hewlett's  'Little  Novels 
of  Italy?'  Among  them  is  a  story,  'The  Judgment  of 
Borso,'  I  believe,  in  which  a  little  party  started  its  ride 
to  Ferrara  along  this  same  road,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  Dorris,  dear,  I  remember.  One  of  the  girls 
had  been  ostracized  from  Venice  owing  to  her  leanness. 
The  other  was  a  true  Venetian,  a  lover  of  her  home  and 
bed.  I  remember,  a  lazy,  languorous  creature." 

"I  am  glad,  so  very  glad,  we  put  our  ride  off  till  late 
afternoon.  It  is  far  prettier  to  have  a  last  one  towards 
sunset,  even  if  there  are  chaperons  who  object,"  she  said. 

She  favoured  him  with  a  saucy  toss  of  the  head. 

"And  it  is  to  be  the  last — the  very  last  one?" 

"I  have  given  my  word,  Paolo;  it  is  final." 

They  passed  a  sylvan  retreat  on  a  lonelier  stretch  of 
the  road. 

"Let  us  dismount,  Dorris,  and  sit  under  those  trees." 

"The  shade  does  look  inviting,  Paolo;  help  me  to  dis- 
mount." 

190 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

He  unfastened  the  elastics  under  her  heel,  and  held 
her  in  his  arms  a  moment  before  he  let  her  touch  the 
ground.  She  led  the  way  to  a  lonely,  shadowed  spot  under 
the  pines,  but  he  waited  to  tether  the  horses  before  he 
followed  her. 

"Paolo,  we  will  sit  here  to  see  the  blue  sky  of  the  West 
turn  into  flaming  scarlet.  Then  we  will  ride  back  to 
Chioggia  in  the  sunset  glow.  It's  sweet  here  among  the 
pine  needles,  isn't  it,  Paolo?  It's  wonderful  to  know 
you're  beside  me  in  the  little  wood." 

She  leaned  back  against  his  shoulder,  and  breathed  in 
the  restfulness  of  the  retreat,  unconscious  for  the  moment 
that  he  was  intently  studying  her  face.  Before  she  knew 
it,  he  had  tilted  back  her  derby  and  pressed  his  lips  to 
the  fragrant  gold  beneath. 

"Look  up  at  me,"  he  said. 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  they  held  each  other's  gaze 
for  long. 

"Dorris,  oh,  Dorris,"  he  whispered  at  last,  "I  was 
right;  you  are  as  beautiful  as  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins. 
Where  did  you  get  that  mouth?  Rossetti  must  have 
dreamed  it  long  ago.  Dorris,  let  us  hope  as  we  sit  to- 
gether among  the  pine-needles  of  this  little  glade.  Let  us 
hope,  Dorris,  dear.  Look  at  me." 

She  only  played  with  her  crop. 

"Dorris,  dear,  may  I  hope  just  for  once? — hope  is  the 
proper  thing  in  this  setting,  on  this  warm  afternoon  in 
Italy — with  you  by  my  side.  Dreaming  of  a  Greek  isle 
in  some  Eastern  sea  and  the  red  lips  and  gold  hair  of 
my  Dorris  enchanting  the  land  with  her  smiles  of  youth 
and  making  the  very  birds  to  sing  through  the  whole 
year. 

191 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"  'Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own 
In  a  blue  summer  ocean,  far  off  and  alone, — 
Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give!'" 

"So  you  are  quoting  dear  little  Tom  Moore  to  me? 
You  have  omitted  some  of  that  stanza,  Paolo." 

"As  critical  as  that,  Dorris?" 

"No-o-o.  Let  us  dream  awhile  if  you  wish,  Paolo. 
Let  us  dream  we  are  on  that  Greek  isle  and  its  only 
inhabitants.  There,  without  a  care,  we  should  love  each 
other  to  death  under  the  bluest  skies  in  the  world.  We 
should  bathe  in  the  aquamarine  depths  of  the  ^gean 
at  sunrise,  and  wander  in  the  rose  garden  through  the 
morning  hours.  The  birds  would  sing  to  us  through  the 
long  sunny  afternoon,  and  I  should  try  to  drown  their 
little  voices  by  an  old  melody  on  my  golden  lyre  with 
your  voice  accompanying.  By  moonlight,  we  should 
dream  on  the  beach,  or  kiss  each  other.  But,  dear  Paolo, 
why  is  all  this  so  foolish,  so  unheard-of  and  absurd?  Why 
are  all  the  sweet  and  tender  things  the  things  that  reality 
snickers  at?" 

"Has  not  many  a  girl  before  your  time  loved  in  the 
same  fashion,  Dorris?  But  I  do  not  think  it  means  so 
much  to  you,  after  all.  Still,  it  is  a  pretty  role  you  are 
playing — to  console  me  for  my  hopeless  love." 

"Paolo,  Paolo !  How  can  you  shame  me  to  the  earth?" 
She  looked  at  him  in  a  startled,  fearing  way.  "Can  you 
imagine  that  I  would  go  to  your  house  as  I  did  last  night, 
alone,  to  ask  your  forgiveness,  if  you  were  nothing  to 
me  in  my  very  heart  of  hearts?  Do  you  dream  that  I 
would  make  so  wretched  one  of  the  few  friends  I  have 
ever  known  ?  Poor  Cordelia !  I  am  breaking  her  heart. 

192 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Then  think  what  I  have  given  you,  oh,  Paolo!  Those 
kisses!  Do  you  suppose,  Paolo,  respecting  my  husband 
as  I  do,  even  though  I  do  not  love  him,  do  you  suppose 
1  would"— 

"I  think  you  are  a  dear,  dreamy  child,  and  that  I  have 
no  right  to  understand  anything  at  all  that  is  not  as  it 
should  be." 

"But  it  is  due  to  me  that  you  understand  that  I  am  not 
dreaming  of  my  love  for  you ;  it  is  right  that  you  under- 
stand what  my  husband  must  be  to  me,  his  name — that 
for  the  mere  fancy,  I  cannot  allow" — 

"Why  should  you  be  so  vehement,  Dorris,  when  you 
mean  to  give  up  nothing?  What  have  you  done  that  you 
should  seek  to  excuse  it  ?  It  is  not  love,  but  coquetry  that 
weighs  and  measures  every  little  act." 

She  waited  a  moment. 

"I  was  trying  to  make  you  see" — 

"You  said  just  now  that  'for  the  mere  fancy'  you  could 
not  allow  something.  Why,  you  admit  that  it  is  mere 
fancy.  What  am  I  to  think?" 

The  girl  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  then  quickly 
started  up  and  confronted  him  with, — 

"You  weigh  and  measure  every  little  word,  and  turn 
it  against  me,  Paolo.  You  can  try  to  tempt  me,  but  you 
shall  not.  You  asked  for  this  last  ride,  to  dream  the 
shadow  of  a  shadow  of  a  hope  in,  and,"  smiling,  "as  Vic- 
tor Hugo  says,  'The  shadow  of  a  shadow  is  leanness,  in- 
deed.' I  thought  it  could  do  no  harm  to  either  of  us; 
yet  here  you  sit  beside  me,  not  a  man  desiring  shadows  or 
even  hopes  of  shadows,  but  demanding  everything.  You 
must  remember." 


193 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Remember?  Then,  it  is  not  love!  I  did  not  suppose 
a  girl  like  you  could  ever  love  me,  but  yet  you  led  me  to 
believe  you  did." 

"Do  you  know,  Paolo,  the  trouble  I  had  to  keep  this 
engagement  with  you  to-day?  Cordelia  positively  for- 
bade it.  She  swore  she  would  prevent  it  if  she  had  to 
hide  my  habit.  We  have  quarreled  as  never  before,  and 
I  don't  know  what  will  be  the  outcome.  I  couldn't  blame 
her  for  leaving  me  entirely;  after  the  long  friendship 
that  has  existed  between  us,  I  might  have  managed  differ- 
ently." 

"Dorris,  I  would  throw  my  profession,  my  friends  to 
the  winds,  and  take  you  with  me  to  the  ends  of  the  world. 
Will  you  come?" 

"I  wonder  if  I  am  too  strong  or  too  weak,  Paolo,  to 
forget  other  ties." 

"Don't  doubt  that  it  takes  strength  to  yield,  Dorris — 
great  strength.  Those  who  condemn  it  as  weakness  know 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other;  they  are  devoid  of  real 
passion.  The  only  weakness  concerned  in  it  at  all  is  the 
weakness  of  loving,  and  that  is  not  the  will  of  the  man  or 
woman  who  feels  its  power.  It  is  arbitrary.  Are  you 
the  possessor  of  the  strength  or  the  weakness?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  which.  In  any  case,  I  shall  not  for- 
get my  duty  to  myself.  It  is  useless  to  discuss  it;  it  leads 
us  nowhere." 

"It  is  very  fascinating,  Dorris,  to  discuss  it  from  a 
purely  unromantic  and  disinterested  standpoint.  It  in- 
terests me  exceedingly." 

"Would  you  like  to  hear  a  strange  story?"  asked  Dor- 
ris. "It  is  a  bit  of  family  history,  but  it  explains  some- 

194 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

thing — at  least  to  me.  My  grandmother  had  something 
of  the  romance  which  sings  in  my  blood;  she  fell  in  love 
— and  with  Mrs.  Gunter's  father." 

"Indeed,  well,  most  grandmothers  have  their  little 
histories  which  they  think  very  interesting;  and  most 
fathers,  too,  for  that  matter.  Probably  your  grand- 
mother and  Mrs.  Gunter's  father  were  no  exceptions  to 
the  rule." 

"But  this  was  as  serious  to  her  as  mine  is  to  me,"  per- 
sisted the  girl.  "She  confided  in  her  husband,  was  taken 
by  him  from  home,  that  she  might  forget, — and  died  in 
Egypt.  My  mother  was  a  little  girl." 

"So  was  mine  once,  Dorris.  Let  us  not  be  serious, 
little  girl." 

"I  want  you  to  understand  it,  Paolo." 

"I  do.  Your  mother  doubtless  fell  in  love,  too.  That 
is  nothing — nothing  at  all.  Ladies  guard  themselves  very 
well  in  these  weighty  matters,  and  it  never  is  quite  so  seri- 
ous as  to  make  them  unhappy — at  least  unhappy  enough 
to  be  quite  sincere." 

"But  rather  than  be  unfaithful  to  my  father,  my 
mother  killed  herself,  Paolo,  with  me  in  her  arms." 

Cenari's  face  changed,  and  he  looked  very  grave  as 
he  bent  over  and  reverently  kissed  her  hand. 

"Forgive  me,  dear.  I  thought  you  jested,  or  were  but 
teasing  me." 

The  girl  went  on  earnestly.  "And  do  you  think  with 
such  tragic  love  stories  as  these  two,  born  into  my  blood 
as  it  were,  I  should  not  fear  any  caprice,  any  trifling  with 
the  moral  code,  however  much  I  might  feel  justified? 
And  I  do  not  feel  justified.  I  have  the  best  husband  in 

195 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

all  the  world,  and  I  am  his  in  the  eyes  of  God  and  man. 
He  has  honoured  me  in  the  way  men  honour  the  woman 
they  love,  and  I  could  always  know  he  was  there  beside 
me,  if  I  needed  him  in  trial  or  distress," 

"What  a  mature  speech,  Dorris,  for  so  young  a  girl. 
But  even  so,  your  heart  is  not  young  enough  to  be  filled 
with  one  thought  only.  You  are  wiser,  or  you  do  not  love 
enough.  Love  sees  only  the  object  of  its  devotion.  You 
admire  Teresa  Guiccioli?  Yet  you  would  not  dare  to  do 
what  she  did.  There  is  not  enough  behind  it  all  in  you. 
The  sweetness  of  her  love-romance  gives  you  a  sort  of 
intellectual  feast;  but  follow  where  she  led,  you  dare  not!" 

She  struck  the  ground  with  her  crop. 

"It  is  not  that.  I  am  between  Scylla  and  Charybdis. 
Scylla  invites  me  to  the  common  sense  and  truth  of  all 
the  ages,  the  purity  of  soul,  and  the  respect  of  all  good 
people.  Charybdis  calls  from  the  other  side,  to  give  my- 
self to  you,  that  I  am  yours,  and  you  are  mine,  by  every 
right  of  nature,  love,  and  divine  intention,  that  I  should 
throw  myself  into  your  arms  and  give  up  to  the  madness 
of  youth  and  the  joy  of  living.  Paolo,  Paolo!  what  can 
I  do?  I  see  you,  I  am  with  you,  and  the  desire  to  give 
up  everything  I  have  ever  known  and  loved,  give  it  up  for 
your  sake,  is  so  sweet  and  so  overmastering  that  I  some- 
times feel  driven  by  fear  to  the  other  extreme — the  sweet, 
good  side  of  me  that  is  preaching  the  wisdom  of  the 
ages.  Paolo,  you  will  drive  me  to  madness.  What  am 
I  to  do?  Do  you  not  realize  the  power  which  my  mother's 
fate,  and  her  mother's  fate,  have  over  my  weakness  for 
you;  how  it  cries  out  a  warning  which  else  it  were  easy 
not  to  hear?  Can  you  not  help  me  in  my  struggle?  Re- 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

member  that  it  is  love  which  'helps  us  to  bear  that  which 
is  difficult.'  " 

"Has  not  the  thought  come  to  you,  Dorris,"  said 
Paolo,  now  risen,  his  hand  upon  her  arm,  "that  you  may 
be,  that  in  fact  you  are  strong  enough  to  do  that  which 
frightened  so  greatly  your  mother  and  your  grandmother? 
Does  not  the  strength,  the  position  of  your  father,  his 
name,  count  for  something?  What  is  the  use  of  having 
brains,  of  inheriting  intellect,  if  you  must  move  in  a  rut — 
be  fanned  by  the  conventions?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  he  went  on,  eagerly, — 

"Tell  me,  Dorris,  when  you  are  in  my  arms,  do  you 
hear  the  good  conscience  of  Scylla,  or  merely  Charybdis 
and  its  life-giving  hope — its  unquenchable  joy?" 

She  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  brimming  with  silent  won- 
der. He  smiled  quizzically. 

"Listen!  Even  the  horses  are  neighing  for  us  to  be  off. 
Hear  them  stamping!  And  if  this  is  all  we  have  to  say" — 

He  broke  off  suddenly.  A  breeze  was  stirring  the  leaves 
ever  so  lightly  above  them;  the  sun  was  departing,  and 
a  soft  perfume  was  lingering  in  the  copse.  Its  red  tones 
revealed  the  two  standing  figures  gazing  at  each  other; 
so  silent  were  they,  that  even  a  startled  hare  paused  in  its 
path  before  darting  on. 

The  wind  picked  up  some  of  the  needles  and  scattered 
them  at  their  feet. 

"Here's  something  to  the  point,  anyway,"  he  muttered; 
then  suddenly  the  turbulence  of  his  spirit  seemed  to  lift 
before  the  glory  of  the  sunset  now  encasing  the  wood; 
and  the  girl  secretly  resented  the  artist  in  him. 

"Paolo,  Paolo,"  she  breathed  at  last,  "it  is  you  who 
do  not  care.  How  beautiful — and  false,  the  world  is.  It 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

seems  to  me  that  the  good  God  bequeathed  these  exquisite 
spots  to  Italy  for  the  joy  of  two  human  beings  who  love 
one  another,  and  the  sunset  air  is  sweet  and  perfumed. 
Oh,  Italy,  how  lovely  you  are!  How  exquisite  1" 

She  walked  over  to  the  now  grazing  horses,  loosened 
the  snaffles,  and  held  them,  awaiting  him.  Her  right  arm 
was  on  the  pommel  of  her  saddle.  He  moved  deliberately 
over  to  where  she  stood,  and  took  the  foot  she  lifted 
ready  for  the  spring;  then  the  grip  on  his  shoulder  loos- 
ened, she  closed  her  eyes,  and  buried  her  head  on  her  arm. 

"Ready?"  he  said  at  last. 

"One,  two,  three!"  she  whispered,  and  he  had  lifted 
her  so  high  that  she  landed  rather  violently  in  the  saddle. 
Her  face  was  suffused  with  the  passing  ecstasy  of  his  touch 
which  was  reacting  swiftly  upon  her.  He  adjusted  her 
stirrup  without  once  looking  at  her.  "See,"  she  cried,  "it 
is  almost  dark.  Think  how  late  it  will  be  when  we  get 
even  as  far  as  Chioggia.  Cordelia!  Oh,  she  will  never, 
never  forgive  me." 

He  was  mounted  by  this  time,  and  they  were  start- 
ing down  the  road.  The  glory  of  the  west  was  fast 
fading  into  the  blue-grey  of  that  enchantment,  an  Italian 
night. 

"Au  galop''  she  ejaculated  suddenly,  after  having  been 
riding  in  silence  with  her  head  uplifted  by  his  side,  and 
the  horses  suddenly  started  at  top  speed  to  tear  through 
space.  The  dust  rose  in  clouds  behind  them.  As  they 
turned  a  corner,  Dorris's  horse  increased  his  speed. 

"Check  him,  check  him !"  shouted  Cenari — as  it  seemed 
from  a  distance,  but  something  was  pounding  in  the  girl's 
ears,  and  with  a  furious  sense  that  Paolo  was  gaining 
upon  her,  she  used  her  crop. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

The  painter  had  no  trouble  in  overtaking  her,  and 
with  a  display  of  masterful  horsemanship,  and  masculine 
ostentation,  he  rode  across  her  path  and  caught  her  horse 
by  the  snaffle. 

Dorris's  annoyance  was  lost  in  admiration  of  Cenari's 
determination  and  strength,  as  he  subdued  the  rearing 
animal,  and  then  turned  cynically  to  her. 

"Little  girls  like  their  fun,"  he  said,  as  they  eyed  each 
other,  while  their  standing  horses  breathed  their  relief 
from  the  long  gallop,  "but  they  must  not  be  allowed  what 
is  not  good  for  them." 

Dorris  swept  his  figure  with  flashing  eyes. 

Chioggia  lay  in  the  distance,  a  mile  away;  and  the 
whistle  of  a  train  came  to  them  as  it  pulled  across  the 
bridge  over  the  lagoon. 

"What  right  had  you  to  stop  my  horse?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"What  right  has  a  man  to  prevent  a  woman's  suicide? 
Why,  the  answer  is  easy,  none  at  all;  but  I  should  prob- 
ably assume  it." 

They  started  to  ride  slowly  on. 

"Suicide?"  she  echoed.  Strange  that  the  word  should 
call  up  before  her  the  image  of  her  father!  The  close 
communion  she  had  held  with  his  now  vanished  presence 
stirred  in  her  a  revolt  quite  as  inexplicable  against  the 
man  beside  her.  Was  it  not  a  living  suicide  to  be  goaded 
by  this  love? 

Cenari  held  her  reins  as  if  fearful  that  the  rider  might 
again  escape  him.  And  .while  she  was  thinking  of  the 
vanity  of  her  struggle — both  now  and  in  the  future — he 
suddenly  jerked  her  horse  closer  to  his,  and  thrust  an  arm 
about  her.  Then  she  struggled  as  in  a  fury,  petulantly 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

digging  her  little  heels  into  her  horse's  flank  as  a  child 
strikes  vainly  at  whatever  may  happen  to  be  in  his  way. 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  Paolo  was  saying,  "the  horse  will 
stop  jumping  if  you  will  only  sit  still.  What  a  baby.  One 
would  think  you  are  afraid  of  me." 

"Maybe  I  am — and  of  myself,"  she  breathed  almost 
in  tears.  Then  with  a  hysterical  movement  she  almost 
wrenched  herself  free. 

He  leaned  toward  her  in  a  whisper  charged  with 
meaning: 

"Stop  this  nonsense,  Dorris,  and  be  still.  Your  lips, 
your  lips!  give  them  to  me  and  stop  this  inferno.  Look 
up  at  me,  so!" 

With  a  lightning  twist  of  his  arm,  Dorris's  head  was 
drawn  back  against  his  shoulder,  while  in  the  same  in- 
stant he  had  regained  the  reins  and  crushed  her  lips  in  a 
wild  kiss;  and  instead  of  rebelling,  the  girl  had  by  this 
time  an  arm  about  his  neck.  When  at  last  he  released 
her  lips,  he  still  held  her  arm. 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  looking  straight  ahead; 
then  he  met  her  eyes  with  something  of  purpose  in  his 
own. 

"Ride  as  we  are  riding  now  for  awhile,  Dorris,  with 
your  arm  on  my  shoulder  and  my  arm  upon  yours.  Let 
us  ride  for  stakes!" 

"Stakes!"  she  gasped. 

"Yes — play  a  game;  toss  the  dice;  give  this  infernal 
Destiny  of  ours  a  chance  to  speak.  We  will  gallop  like 
this  from  here  to  Chioggia,  in  the  twilight." 

"In  the  twilight,"  she  repeated,  as  if  taking  the  words 
from  his  lips. 

He  looked  at  her. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"How  white  you  are!  I  never  dreamed  your  pallor — 
Why,  girl,  the  game  is  fair.  I  haven't  a  ghost  of  a  chance." 

"You  are  playing  a  game" — 

"Men  have  done  it  before — in  Italy,  for  the  one 
woman  in  all  the  world, — and  won,  too.  It  is  medieval, 
but  so  is  my  passion;  it  is  romantic,  but  so  is  the  night. 
It  is  only  Dorris,  the  Puritan,  who  is  out  of  the  spirit  of 
it — and  she  shall  come  in." 

"You  can  jest?" 

"If  I  win,  the  jest  will  be  yourself.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"The  jest?" 

"Did  I  say  jest?  I  meant,  the  gift.  If  our  arms  are 
together  thus  when  we  reach  Chioggia,  I  win,  I  win!" 

"But  that's  unfair.  Your  strength  might  enable  you 
to"— 

"That's  not  what  I  mean,"  he  explained  with  a  gravity 
to  match  her  own.  "If  we  are  able  to  keep  together  at 
all,  it  will  be  a  marvel.  But  at  the  finish,  your  arm  will 
be  voluntarily  clasping  my  shoulder.  You  can't  remove 
it;  at  least,  that  is  my  hope — the  hope  of  a  madman 
against  the  calmness  of  a  Dorris.  Do  you  agree?  'Let  us 
ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride.' ' 

"You  are  absurd.  You  mean  if  I  let  my  arm  drop, 
you  lose?" 

"Yes,  Dorris,  but  it  is  no  laughing  matter  to  me.  I  told 
you  it  was  the  last  hope  of  a  madman.  Are  you  ready?" 

For  answer,  she  struck  her  horse  which,  getting  in  the 
lead,  was  gradually  pulled  back,  and  they  were  traveling 
now  at  an  easy  gallop  over  the  old  road,  their  arms  en- 
twined, the  crescent  moon  on  their  path,  and  the  earth 
around  and  beneath  them,  a  delicate  silver-blue. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

Before  them  lay  the  lagoon,  a  shining  sheet.  In  the 
coolness  and  fragrance  of  the  night,  the  horses  seemed 
to  will  to  speed  ahead,  but  Dorris  tightened  her  grip  on 
Cenari's  shoulder  involuntarily,  and  in  an  instant  they 
were  nearer  than  before.  His  spell  was  upon  her,  and  it 
did  not  frighten  her,  for  she  felt  that  she  was  in  a  trance 
in  which  were  visible  only  the  lines  he  wrote  upon  her 
heart.  This  magician,  using  her  at  his  will,  rode  onward 
with  her  into  that  blackness  of  negation  which  she  had  so 
greatly  feared  but  now  feared  no  more.  Surely,  no  mere 
man  could  affect  her  like  this,  tie  up  and  confuse  her  sense 
of  right  and  wrong,  her  sense  of  weakness  and  strength, 
and  still  be  the  source  of  this  transcendent  happiness. 

Then  she  felt  that  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  though 
firm,  was  not  quite  immovable,  for  every  time  she  tight- 
ened her  grasp,  it  was  to  know  that  he  insensibly  gave 
way.  How  black  his  soul  must  be,  using  this  cruel  power 
— deeper  down  in  mystery  than  anything  physical — and 
the  nature  of  which  he  must  be  able  to  measure  as  she 
could  not.  He  was  so  sure  of  himself,  and,  oh  God !  of 
her,  of  her !  that  he  would  draw  back,  or  appear  to,  when 
he  knew  this  would  force  her  on.  And  he  knew  the 
stakes,  yet  would  not  help  her  morally.  He  knew  the 
stakes. 

Suddenly  she  realized  that  she  could  not  move  her 
arm,  and  each  time  he  managed  that  the  horses  should  not 
get  apart;  but  his  hand  upon  her  sleeve  was  light.  This 
was  strange. 

The  lights  of  Chioggia  were  glowing  in  the  near  dis- 
tance, and  already  they  were  passing  houses.  If  her  arm 
held  his  when  they  should  pass  Chioggia, — this  was  the 
wager  that  she  was  letting  him  win. 

202 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Now,  dreams  which  had  disturbed  her  sleep  became 
more  potent  than  this  great  Reality  with  Paolo  riding  at 
her  side.  The  train  which  had  whistled  a  moment  since 
over  the  lagoon  was  advancing,  while  she  was  prone  upon 
its  track.  Was  it  last  night  that  she  had  lain  as  in  a 
trance,  while  Cordelia  and  Paolo — yes,  and  Harry,  too — 
had  come  with  tears  and  flowers  and  funeral  chants? 
Was  it  last  night  that  she  had  slept  in  that  vault  where 
the  bones  of  wicked  old  doges  rattled,  and  dead  men  gib- 
bered, and  the  world  outside  was  still? 

She  lifted  her  head  to  listen.  As  in  a  dream,  she  was 
hearing  Cenari's  voice  calling  to  her  to  come  out  into  the 
sunshine  with  him,  no  matter  whether  the  "damned  and 
dead"  wanted  her  in  there  in  the  tomb  with  them,  or  not. 

And  though  he  was  pleading  for  a  word,  she  could  not 
lift  a  finger  to  show  that  she  breathed,  that  she  heard  and 
would  move  her  lips  if  she  could. 

Then  that  gateway  which  she  had  been  seeing  as  shut- 
ting in  the  dead  gave  way  suddenly  to  another  in  her  path 
beyond  the  shadow  of  which  lay  Chioggia. 

"You  did  speak,"  she  whispered  between  teeth  that 
chattered,  "you  called  me  out  of  the  grave." 

"And  call  you  yet,"  he  murmured. 

And  there  were  those  in  this  dry-as-dust  world  who 
denied  the  magic  spell  of  personality,  the  fairy  wand 
which  transforms  circumstance.  She  was  still  as  unable 
to  withdraw  her  arm  from  his  shoulder  as  is  the  magnet 
to  turn  from  steel. 

She  had  taunted  him  with  absurdity.  He  not  know 
any  game  he  might  undertake  with  her?  Had  she  sup- 
posed he  had  not  lived  through  experiences  at  which  she 
could  only  guess,  to  enable  him  to  help  the  devil  to  cope 

203 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

with  her?  Cordelia  had  known,  and  that  was  why  she 
feared. 

They  were  galloping  straight  up  to  the  gate;  in  a  mo- 
ment he  would  have  the  right  to  twit  her  with  having  let 
him  win.  Never!  A  host  of  restraining  impulses  leaped 
up  as  in  a  flame  within  her;  the  ange  tutelaire,  that 
light  slumberer  in  the  bosom  of  womanhood,  always 
awake  to  guard,  or  at  least  to  warn — fanned  the  flame; 
and  she  summoned  every  nerve  and  fibre  to  a  fierce  resist- 
ance against  an  abject  alternative. 

The  answer  came.  As  they  passed  through  the  gate, 
her  arm  dropped  at  her  side  like  a  leaden  weight. 

"Paolo,"  she  said  when  he  assisted  her  to  dismount, 
"my  arm  was  as  numb,  as  numb  as" — she  hesitated  for 
a  comparison. 

"I  know,"  he  bowed,  "as  your  heart." 

The  reaction  had  come  and  she  could  smile. 

"Far  worse  than  that.  It  was  really  numb.  I  thought 
you  were  holding  me  powerless — so  that  I  could  not  win 
our  silly  wager;  and  my  arm  all  the  time  was  really  get- 
ting so  I  could  not  move  it  without  an  effort  that  it  seemed 
as  if  I  simply  could  not  make." 

"It  seemed  as  if  it  had  grown  to  my  shoulder,  as  if  it 
were  no  arm  at  all,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Yes — and  to  some  extent,  it  feels  so  still." 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  air  of  inquiry. 

"I  willed  it,  and  willed  it,  and  willed  it,"  he  told  her. 
"I  was  thinking  of  nothing  else  in  all  the  world.  I  willed 
it  with  all  my  soul  and  body;  I  swore  it  by  the  devil  within 
me,  and  the  hell  outside.  But  I  was  over-confident,  you 
see.  Women  are  so  frail.  As  we  drew  near  the  gate, 
you  startled  me  by  saying  that  my  voice  had  called  to  you 

204 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

out  of  the  grave,  and  I  could  not  regain  my  power — there 
wasn't  time,  you  see;  we  were  too  near  the  gate." 

"When  your  mind  wandered,"  she  laughed  gaily, 
"down  came  my  arm.  Silly  Paolo,  to  think  that  will 
frighten  me.  My  own  imagination  was  what  was  helping 
you,  nothing  else  at  all.  I  thought  I  couldn't  escape." 

"I  will  give  the  horses  over  to  the  groom,"  he  said 
moodily,  "they  are  about  as  tired  of  this  sport  as  our- 
selves." 

"But  remember  that  you  lose,"  she  called,  as  he  lifted 
his  hat  and  turned  away. 


205 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 
Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free! 

Where  does  the  fault  lie?     What  the  core 
O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 

— Tivo  in  the  Camf>agna. 

Dorris  stared  out  into  the  night,  her  hands  clasping 
each  side  of  the  parted  curtain.  The  fragrance  and 
warmth  of  the  summer  but  intensified  her  burning  unrest. 
The  Grand  Canal  caught  the  crescent  of  the  vanishing 
moon  in  its  unruffled  surface.  The  vine-clad  wall  of  the 
Spechio-Torni  garden  smiled  at  its  perfect  reflection,  and 
the  few  lights  in  the  surrounding  palaces  rendered  the 
peace  and  beauty  of  the  scene  more  solemn  to  the  watch- 
ing girl.  A  passing  gondola  bearing  laughing  occupants, 
followed  by  two  or  three  more  silent  ones,  told  her  that 
it  was  Venice,  her  much  cherished  city;  and  for  a  moment 
it  seemed  enough. 

Oh,  Giorgione,  could  you  have  caught  the  expression 
on  those  parted  lips,  the  tints  in  the  hair  and  eyes,  the 
slender  throat  stretched  forward,  with  the  faint  colour  of 
her  beauty  heightened  by  the  dark  room  and  the  old 
grey  of  the  balcony,  who  knows  but  you  might  never  have 
found  time  to  paint  your  "Concerto"?  And  Titian! 
Your  canvas  would  have  been  cold  and  lifeless,  however, 
for  Dorris  is  far  too  exotic  ever  to  have  hypnotized 
your  brush.  No;  she  is  not  a  Venetian  beauty,  Titian 
— sleep  on.  Her  cheeks  are  not  like  ripened  apples  or 

206 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

pomegranate  fruit;  her  hair  is  not  burnished  auburn  or 
her  shoulders  a  superb  abundance  of  soft  flesh,  but  her 
mouth  is  redder  than  the  holly-berry  or  July  Jacks  spring- 
ing into  bloom.  Rossetti !  I  know  at  least  your  eyelids 
would  quiver  if  this  lily  girl  stood  before  your  "Sancta 
Lilias."  Could  even  you  have  caught  her  frightened 
Daphne  look,  that  inexplicable  something  arching  the 
eyebrows  so  delicately — and  yet  not  a  frown.  You 
would  never  have  called  it  love,  Rossetti. 

In  those  moments  when  we  are  permitted  to  feel  the 
rhythm  with  the  mystery  of  infinity,  how  lesser  things  re- 
cede. We  cannot  mourn  over  trite  personal  miseries  when 
the  end  and  aim  is  foreshadowed  in  the  glory  of  an  Ital- 
ian morning!  If  the  night  come  with  its  shroud,  the 
morning  must  surely  follow  with  its  bridal  veil.  And 
what  man,  not  being  permitted  to  choose  that  he  live, 
would  plead  for  any  choice  that  is  withheld  so  mercifully 
as  the  full  rounding  out  of  destiny? 

As  the  distant  music — Dorris  was  sure  it  was  from  the 
Giudecca — died  away  into  the  night  whose  fragrance  was 
heavy  like  a  burden  upon  her,  she  thought  of  the  "damned 
and  dead"  who  live  without  the  gift  of  love.  Would  this 
night  never  be  over,  this  night  of  hesitation  and  almost  of 
hate?  For  it  was  useless  to  go  on  like  this,  brimful  of 
torment.  She  had  enjoyed  books,  she  had  found  re- 
source in  art,  and  music  had  delighted  her.  Now,  all  this 
was  past.  She  saw  all  things  from  a  new  angle, — and 
she  could  no  longer  enjoy. 

How  had  the  world  lived  and  faced  such  agony  through 
long  years?  Her  ancestors  had  borne  their  burdens, 
somehow,  and  been  helped  out, — perhaps,  by  prayer. 

Dorris  dropped  upon  her  knees  at  the  window. 

207 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Venus,  or  Mary!"  she  prayed.  "Why  should  I  pour 
out  my  heart  to  a  woman-god?  Because  I  have  never 
known  a  mother?  But  even  as  a  child,  they  told  me  that 
the  lilies  changed  their  names  from  the  Queen  of  Beauty 
to  the  Mother  of  God.  Ah,  me!" 

She  waited  a  moment  with  bowed  head. 

"I  have  everything  that  most  women  want,"  she  cried 
out.  "I  can  buy  all  the  dainties  that  make  women  beau- 
tiful. I  am  beautiful.  I  am  young.  I  love  the  beautiful. 
But  happiness  eludes  me  as  if  I  were  the  plague.  Why, 
because  I  seem  so  free,  queens  would  envy  me,  and  here  I 
am  tied  down  by  temperament." 

She  rose  and  walked  about  the  room. 

"Can  I  overcome?  But  what  is  the  use  of  the  misery? 
If  the  desire  to  fight  against  it  were  not  passing  away, 
I  would  not  care  so  much.  But  it  may  take  my  soul  and 
all  goodness  with  it, — it  may,  it  may!  Why  was  my 
father's  love  given  me?  Why  was  I  born  of  a  mother 
who  loved  life  so  little  that  she  should  welcome  death? 

"Is  it  the  price  I  pay  for  everything  else,  that  I  shall 
value  nothing  but  the  happiness  denied  me?  Ah,  me, 
what  irony!  I  would  forego  it  all  and  creep  down  with 
the  peasant  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  soil  from  which  we 
all  have  sprung.  Given  all  things  of  the  earth  earthy,  if 
discontent  is  the  price,  I  would  have  nothing,  nothing — 
save  the  power  to  enjoy. 

"Bring  to  my  heart  the  answer;  at  least  let  me  know 
why.  Send  me  the  faith  that  all  is  well  with  me,  even 
if  I  suffer,  and  then  I  might  endure.  But  not  like  this, 
not  like  this.  It  will  make  me  a  lost  woman  if  it  stains 
me  so — if  it  stains  me  so." 

She  walked  back  to  the  window  again. 

208 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Oh,  if  I  could  see  a  cross — maybe  that  would  help 
me,  as  Maria  says  the  sight  of  it  once  helped  her.  But 
there  are  no  crosses  in  this  city  which  rises,  like  Aphro- 
dite from  the  sea;  yet  it  is  the  symbol  of  a  great  faith, 
and  faith  in  the  usefulness  of  renunciation  might  help  me. 
But  I  don't  see  the  use  of  it — when  I  am  young,  when  I 
was  made  for  pleasure,  when  life  is  passing  me  by  with 
hours  'swifter  than  the  weaver's  shuttle.'  If  I  were  led 
with  a  loving  hand  as  Jesus  blest  the  children,  I  might 
follow, — but  I  can't  see  my  way  alone.  Give  me  peace  at 
least  one  hour.  Do  not  let  my  nerves  rack  me.  Send  me 
dreamless  sleep.  If  I  forego  the  ether, — that  renuncia- 
tion is  entirely  on  the  physical  side.  But  it  may  serve,  it 
may  serve." 

She  lifted  her  head,  for  a  song-boat  had  stopped  before 
the  opposite  palace,  and  the  tender,  wistful  music  of 
Gounod's  "Ave  Maria"  floated  in  to  her.  Never  before 
had  this  song  seemed  to  her  an  appeal,  but  the  singer  sent 
it  forth — as  from  her  soul ! 

"No  one  could  sing  like  that  who  has  not  suffered 
almost  as  much  as  I,"  thought  Dorris,  as  she  rose  and 
went  upon  the  balcony.  Then  when  she  recognized  the 
boat  and  knew  the  singer,  disillusion  came.  The  soprano 
was  a  coarse  girl  of  the  people  whose  heart  could  not 
have  mastered  melody,  and  yet,  and  yet,  that  song !  Who 
was  she  to  judge  the  depths  of  another's  suffering — or  of 
her  incapacity  to  feel? 

The  last  chord  vibrated  across  the  canal,  and  the  song- 
boat  started  on  its  way,  its  many  lanterns  lighting  up  the 
waters.  Then  it  disappeared. 

Dorris  re-entered  her  room  and  began  a  search  for  her 
long  neglected  guitar,  which  finally  she  found  in  the 

209 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

dining-room,  and  crept  from  thence  through  the  dark 
adjoining  rooms  to  the  staircase  which  she  descended  with 
a  halting  step. 

When  at  last  she  opened  the  garden-gate  where  the 
fountain  was  playing  to  her  mood,  she  stopped  short 
under  the  influence  of  music  and  the  night;  then  walked 
slowly  across  the  garden  to  a  wicker  seat  amidst  the  foli- 
age near  the  wall.  The  guitar  she  found  badly  out  of 
tune,  and  it  was  many  minutes  before  its  chords  were 
rhythmic.  She  opened  the  gate  in  the  wall,  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  deserted  canal.  Then,  confident  of 
being  undisturbed,  she  regained  her  seat  among  the 
jessamine. 

Her  fingers  wandered  over  the  strings,  and  the  strains 
of  "Ave  Maria"  grew  upon  her  as  if  played  by  other 
hands  than  her  own.  A  window  in  the  Vega  Palace 
opened  that  some  one  might  listen,  but  she  was  lifted  above 
all  things  from  without,  even  the  consideration  that  her 
untrained  voice  to  Venetian  ears  might  be  thin  and  vibrant. 
At  the  high  C  it  did  break,  and  irritated,  she  thrust  the 
instrument  upon  the  ground.  Her  vain  endeavour  to 
master  a  melody  she  loved  transformed  her  mood  into 
one  which  demanded  the  lively  Italian  "Ciribiribin."  But 
its  laughing  music  seemed  to  draw  sobs  from  her  throat. 
It  was  not  until  she  picked  out  Massenet's  "Elcgie"  that 
harmony  finally  met  her  mood,  and  its  hopeless  heart-break 
came  to  one  in  a  gondola,  in  the  words : 


"0   doux  printemps  d'autrefois 

Vers  tes  saisons 
Vons  avez  fuit  pour  toujours! 
Je  ne  vois  plus  le  ciel  bleu, 
Je  n'entends  plus,  les  chants  joyeux 

Des  oiseaux. 


210 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

En  emportant  mon  bonheur, 

O,  bien  aimee,  tu  t'en  es  allee, 

Et  c'  est  en  vain,  que  revient  le  printemps ! 

Oui,  sans  retour  avec  toi,  le  gai  soleil 

Les  jours  riants  sont  partis ! 

Tout  est  fletri, 

Pour  toujours!" 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  when  she  heard 
steps  at  the  open  gate  in  the  wall,  and  Cenari  was  bowing 
low  before  her. 

"Signore!  Signore!  Had  I  wanted  to  see  you,  or  any 
one,  to-night,  I  should  have  gone  with  Cordelia  to  the 
Colbrizzi." 

"Instead  of  which  you  called  me  from  there,  with  your 
singing — served  a  la  Pyramis  and  Thisbe  through  the 
wall.  Mrs.  Gunter  knew  your  voice,  even  before  I  told 
her,  you  see.  You  have  forgotten  the  nearness  of  the 
Colbrizzi  garden.  A  voice  carries  far  on  such  a  night. 
It  is  the  spontaneity  that  I  love." 

She  got  up  and  bowed.    "You?    Indeed,  indeed!" 

"Do  you  doubt  it?  It  was  that  which  brought  me 
here.  I  made  a  pretext  to  leave  e  cosi,  e  finita  la 


musica." 


"Yes,"  mocked  Dorris,  "e  finita  la  musica.  I  told  you 
so  this  afternoon." 

"But  remember  (La  Donna  e  Mobile/  "  he  laughed, 
"which  you  only  began.  I  see  you  are  modest  in  singing 
about  yourself." 

"Suppose,  signore,"  suggested  Dorris,  "that  we  select 
some  one  language  to  converse  in.  Personally,  this 
method  of  mixing  phrases  from  ever  so  many  tongues  is 


tiresome  to  me." 


'What  is  that  you  say?" 

211 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

She  repeated  what  she  had  said  with  emphatic  vari- 
ations. 

"Exactly,  signora.  You  are  in  my  mood.  Mirabile 
dictu,  I  agree." 

"But  no  dead  languages  may  be  admitted  either.  As 
we  are  in  Venice,  let  us  dwindle  into  Italian." 

"I  should  say,"  remarked  Cenari,  cynically,  "that  any 
dwindling  would  be  into  English." 

"I  thought  you  were  too  much  of  a  gentleman  to  in- 
sult my  native  tongue." 

Dorris  stared  at  the  fountain. 

"As  that  is  American,  I  am  doing  no  harm.  But 
where  does  the  discussion  of  race  or  tongue  lead?  You 
and  I  possess  the  same  sentiments.  Any  language  will 
convey  our  thoughts — even  the  wireless  one  which  tele- 
graphed your  message  to  me  to-night." 

"How  nice  it  must  be,"  said  Dorris,  "how  very,  very  sat- 
isfactory, to  be  conceited  enough  to  be  sure  it  was  sent." 

"Well,  at  least  you  sent  a  prayer  to  Santa  Maria.  I 
was  saying,  'Where  does  the  discussion  of  race  or  tongue 
lead?'5 

"Where  does  anything  lead?"  Dorris  asked  quizzically, 
at  last.  "Where  do  my  worry  and  unrest  lead?  What 
difference  will  it  make  fifty  years  hence?  Who  will  care?" 

"Care  for  what?" 

"Whether  I  loved  or  hated  you;  whether  I  yielded  or 
renounced;  whether  I  tasted  the  bitter-sweet  of  love  and 
felt  the  awakening,  or  put  you  out  of  my  life,"  was  Dor- 
ris's  reply. 

"No  one  will  care,  Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  replied  Paolo, 
"no  one  except  Eros.  He  will  feel  it  intensely  fifty  years 
hence." 

212 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  asked.  "No,  Eros  has  been 
spurned  too  often.  If  I  spurn  him  now,  he  will  merely 
grin  and  pass  on  to  his  next  victim.  That  is  his  way." 

"You  are  a  singular  girl,"  he  remarked,  "I  cannot  quite 
make  you  out." 

"Well,  that  is  the  first  essential  in  the  ethics  of  flirta- 
tion: Convey  the  thought  to  the  desired  victim,  that  he, 
she  or  it  is  an  enigma.  The  flattery  of  it  sometimes 
works  wonders.  Don't  talk  like  that  to  me !" 

"Pray  don't  give  me  philosophy,  not  on  a  summer  night 
in  Venice.  Wait  for  a  rainy  day,  in  London  or  New. 
York!" 

"Hm-m,"  laughed  Dorris,  "as  if  you  and  I  would  ever 
meet  in  London  or  New  York.  How  absurd!" 

"Did  you  really  take  my  remark  seriously?  Why  you 
said  good-bye  forever  to  me  this  afternoon!" 

"For  how  long  do  you  propose  keeping  up  this  cheerful 
banter?  For  my  part,  it  is  beginning  to  get  dull. 
Signore" — 

Cenari  drew  a  whistle  from  his  pocket  and  blew  it 
three  times. 

"Are  you  mad?"  asked  Dorris. 

"To  be  sure — to  be  sure!  You  see  I  merely  whistled 
for  my  gondolier.  He  may  be  out  of  calling  distance.  I 
couldn't  shout,  particularly  when  you  were  beginning  to 
get  bored,"  he  said,  and  walked  to  the  steps  at  the  gate. 

"I  suppose  you  in  turn  have  taken  me  seriously,  and 
are  going?"  asked  Dorris,  a  little  annoyed. 

"You  have  guessed.  I'm  sure  the  guitar  would  amuse 
you  far  more  than  I.  My  studio  is  in  a  shocking  condi- 
tion, and  my  work  has  been  neglected  ever  since  I  saw 
your  aureoled  face." 

213 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

The  disappointed  Dorris  was  playing  with  a  branch 
among  the  bushes. 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  she  asked.    "Am  I  such  a  fiend?" 

The  gondola  was  at  the  steps. 

"You  are  really  going?"  she  asked,  giving  him  her 
most  bewitching  smile. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  hand  respectfully. 

"Good-night,  Marchesa"  he  said. 

She  tried  to  speak,  to  call  him  back,  to  give  him  some 
word  of  encouragement,  but  her  lips  were  mute.  The 
gondola  was  on  its  way,  leaving  little  ripples  in  its  course. 
Dorris,  stupefied,  stood  on  the  steps  and  watched  it  dis- 
appear. 

An  unaccountable  impulse  seized  her.  She  ran  back  to 
her  seat  in  the  bushes  and  found  herself  singing  Shelley's 
"Indian  Serenade,"  very  softly  and  quite  low.  She  put 
a  bit  of  coquetry  in  her  singing,  and  raised  her  voice  a 
trifle  at  the  lines, — 

"I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me,  who  knows  how, 
To  thy  chamber-window,   Sweet !" 

She  was  singing  to  Paolo,  and  she  knew  he  had  heard. 

On  her  way  back  to  the  sleeping  palace,  she  remem- 
bered Cordelia.  Why  was  she  not  at  home?  It  must 
be  late,  owing  to  the  darkness  of  the  rooms.  She  thought 
she  might  at  least  light  up  the  ballroom  for  her,  and  with 
that  intention  she  stole  into  her  own  room,  where  she 
groped  for  matches  and  a  candle.  Passing  through  Cor- 
delia's again,  she  stumbled  upon  a  shoe,  and  holding  the 
candle  high,  found  her  dear  friend  soundly  sleeping.  She 

214 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

made  her  exit  noiselessly,  wondering  how  Cordelia  had 
entered  without  her  knowledge. 

When  she  had  regained  her  room,  she  drew  a  big  chair 
before  a  window  and  stared  down  the  canal  into  the  beau- 
tiful stillness  that  reigned  supreme. 

"I  sang  him  the  '.Indian  Serenade.'  Will  he  come? 
Will  he  come  in  his  gondola  to  my  'chamber-window'? 
Oh,  God!  will  he  come?"  And  so  she  sat,  thinking  the 

thoughts  of  youth. 

******* 

It  was  with  the  "Indian  Serenade"  ringing  in  his  ears 
that  Cenari  ordered  his  gondolier  to  turn  into  a  small 
canal. 

"Now  as  fast  as  ever  you  can,  Tita,"  he  said,  "to  the 
Caffe  de  la  Bella  Venezia."  Then  as  the  music  grew 
fainter  and  more  faint,  he  leaned  back  and  smiled. 

The  gondolier  briskly  turning  the  boat  first  into  this 
canal,  then  into  that,  finally  came  to  the  Murano  Lagoon, 
and  from  thence  rowed  into  an  almost  unfrequented  rio. 

Already  Cenari  was  in  sight  of  the  old  palace  in  which 
was  the  cafe  famous  for  rendezvous.  Another  gondola 
was  drawn  up  at  the  steps,  and  at  sight  of  Cenari,  a 
cloaked  figure  leaped  with  the  grace  of  a  young  lioness 
from  her  seat  into  the  court. 

"You  said  midnight,"  she  remarked,  as  he  greeted  her 
with  a  nod,  and  they  paused  together  a  moment  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  palace  before  ascending  the  stairs  to  the  cafe. 

"How  long  have  you  been  waiting?"  he  asked  in 
French. 

"I  came  before  midnight,  but  it  wasn't  because  I  didn't 
know  I'd  have  time  to  spare,  you  being  so  virtuous — I 
mean  punctual  in  the  matter  of  minutes." 

215 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

They  were  going  up  the  stairs  by  this  time. 

"Well,  Ventriss,"  he  said,  "it's  good  to  have  'one  vir- 
tue linked  with  a  thousand  crimes.'  And  you  were  sure  I 
wouldn't  be  late?" 

"The  compliment  of  having  you  come  before  would 
have  overwhelmed  me,"  said  the  woman  smiling,  as  they 
entered  the  cafe  and  took  seats  near  a  window. 

"How  have  you  been?  I  haven't  seen  you  for  some 
time,"  he  remarked  as  they  looked  each  other  over  super- 
ciliously. 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  get  me  here  to  say  that?" 

"But  you  are  looking  well." 

"As  barbaric  as  ever,  signore?" 

"Tell  me  all  about  everything,"  he  added,  pausing  a 
moment  to  give  the  waiter  an  order.  Then  when  they 
were  again  alone:  "You  find  it  very  amusing  to  go  up 
and  down  the  canal,  do  you  not?  Spend  lots  of  lire  on 
handsome  gondoliers,  dodging  in  and  out  of  this  place 
and  that.  Strange  that  one  doesn't  tire  of  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  have  been  young  myself." 

"You  are  still  young  enough  to  be  facetious,  signore — 
I  might  almost  say  impertinent." 

"Don't  halt  at  the  'almost,'  Ventriss.  I  am  not  sen- 
sitive. But  when  handsome  women  follow  me  in  cov- 
ered gondolas  at  night,  and  even  take  seats  near  me  at 
dinners,  it  makes  me  nervous.  Come,  now,  Ventriss — 
before  we  drink  on  it,  what's  the  game?" 

"Cenari,  nervous?"  She  laughed  uproariously.  "Why, 
if  I  could  keep  up  with  your  conquests,  it  would  make  me 
dizzy." 

"Well,  don't  by  any  means  get  dizzy.  It  would  annoy 
me  very  much,  and  might  prevent  my  being  shadowed, — 

216 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

which  is  exciting.  Come,  now,  Ventriss,  I  am  not  tossing 
dice.  Who  put  you  on?" 

"Bah,  Cenari,  don't  be  a  fool.     The  lady  is  too  thin." 

"For  your  taste,  maybe.  But  to  what  lady  do  you 
refer  just  now?" 

"I  don't  wonder  you  are  curious.  The  little  American, 
so  pale,  so  charming, — but  no  temperament,  and  too  hope- 
lessly au  naturel." 

"One  would  think  you  wanted  her  served  up  a  la  carte, 
but  I  am  completely  in  the  dark,  Ventriss.  Can't  you  be 
more  explicit?" 

"Why  should  I?"  laughed  the  woman  as  the  waiter 
drew  near  once  more.  Then  disregarding  the  intrusion 
of  the  third  party,  went  on,  obviously  to  Cenari's  annoy- 
ance, "To  think  the  well-proportioned,  bright-eyed  Vene- 
tian should  have  her  for  a  rival.  Oh,  she  is  too  English." 

"I  am  afraid,  Ventriss,"  sipping  champagne,  which 
she  swallowed  in  a  gulp,  "that  you  are  not  artistic.  But 
why  espouse  the  cause  of  Venetian  ladies?  Your  Levan- 
tine ideals  may  incline  you  to  less  perfect  loveliness,  and 
as  for  the  English,  the  too  English,  —  even  Ventriss 
shouldn't  smite  the  hand  that  pays  the  lire.  Have  you 
seen  her  ladyship  lately?" 

"I  wasn't  referring  to  Lady  Blanchard." 

"I  know  it,  but  I  am.  Come,  Ventriss,  how  much  did 
she  give  you  for  shadowing  me  ?  You  see  she  would  have 
a  delicacy  about  stating  the  sum — to  me." 

"I  haven't  noticed  anything  like  that  about  her;  I 
should  think  she'd  be  rather  careful  of  it.  Delicacy  is 
scarce." 

"When  are  you  going  to  Paris,  Ventriss?"  he  asked. 
"Do  you  remember  that  night  at  Abbaye?  For  a  long 

217 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

time  the  laughing  eyes  and  loving  arms  of  the  women 
of  Levantine  and  French  extraction  delighted  me." 

"Yes,  I  believe  you." 

"You  dined  alone  that  night,  just  as  you  dined  at  the 
Grand  Hotel,  by  the  way." 

"I  thought  you  were  coming  to  that." 

"And  I  thought,"  said  Cenari,  lowering  his  voice,  as 
he  heard  the  voices  of  new-comers  on  the  stairs,  "that 
we  might  possibly  talk  alone.  Why,  it's  George  Peabody, 
of  Boston.  And  I've  seen  the  lady,  too.  Can't  place 
her.  But  they  are  Americans,  Ventriss." 

"Evidently.  I  wonder  why  their  men  can't  seem  ever 
to  have  any  fun  without  getting  drunk." 

Somewhat  to  Cenari's  surprise,  Mr.  Peabody  had 
recognized  him  and  was  on  his  way  to  greet  him.  The 
Italian  rose. 

"On  my  life — Cenari,  the  painter!"  he  almost  shouted. 
"Mrs.  Lane,  let  me  introduce  him  to  you.  Mrs.  Lane, 
this  is  Cenari,  the  man  who  painted  Lady  Somebody-or- 
other  in  London.  I  forget  these  confounded  titles,  but 
it  had  something  to  do  with  an  exhibition." 

Ventriss  stared  as  Mrs.  Lane  sat  down  beside  her,  and 
Cenari  looked  at  Mr.  Peabody. 

"Have  you  been  in  Venice  long?"  he  inquired. 

"Got  here  yesterday.  Do  you  stay  here  all  the  year 
round?" 

"I  manage  to  get  out  now  and  then,"  said  the  Italian, 
smiling.  "My  place  of  abode  is  Rome.  I  judge  from 
your  tone  you're  not  to  remain." 

"Why,  there's  nothing  here  but  American  girls  and 
pigeons,  but — ah,  there's  the  waiter!  What'll  you  have, 
Mrs.  Lane?" 

218 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

The  order  was  given,  and  Mrs.  Lane  looked  startled. 
Mr.  Peabody  leaned  over  confidentially  to  her,  and  Cen- 
ari  and  Ventriss  exchanged  glances. 

"There's  one  thing,"  said  Mr.  Peabody,  lifting  his 
glass,  "they  say  Mrs.  Teddy  Gunter's  in  Venice,  living 
alone  in  some  old  house." 

"And  here's  the  boy  with  our  supper,"  laughed  Cenari. 
"Now,  we'll  all  be  happy."  He  rose  as  if  to  readjust  his 
chair,  and  tactfully  made  a  place  for  Mr.  Peabody  near 
Ventriss,  smiling  at  his  duplicity;  for  Ventriss  was  not  in 
the  mood  to  be  bored. 

He  found  Mrs.  Lane  adaptable.  She  liked  Venice 
"very  much."  But  Peabody  would  insist  in  breaking  in 
upon  their  talk. 

"I  have  heard,"  he  said,  "a  lot  about  that  Bedford 
girl  that  caught  Harry  Van  Lennep.  Strange  how  news 
travels.  Boston  hears  everything." 

"Enterprising  place,  like  all  American  communities. 
But  what  has  Boston  to  say?  Venice  finds  Mrs.  Van 
Lennep  delightful." 

"Does,  eh?  Well,  she'd  better  go  home  to  her  hus- 
band. They  say  there's  queer  work  here,  and  Van  Len- 
nep's  talking  a  good  deal  to  lawyers.  Shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  there's  a  divorce  in  the  wind.  Teddy  Gunter's 
wife  came  over  to  patch  it  up." 

"So  serious  as  that,"  said  Cenari's  suave  voice.  "Well, 
well,  the  ladies  are  taking  it  very  coolly,  even  thinking  of 
returning  home,  I  hear." 

Both  Ventriss  and  Cenari  were  relieved  to  be  alone  in 
her  gondola  at  last. 


219 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Americans!"  the  woman  grumbled.  "I  told  you  they 
were  impossible." 

Cenari  laughed  softly. 

"To  make  up  for  a  misspent  evening,  tell  me  now  what 
I  want  so  much  to  know — about  Lady  Blanchard." 

As  he  spoke  he  glanced  involuntarily  toward  the  Spe- 
chio-Torni  palace  in  the  distance,  and  ordered  the  gon- 
dolier to  change  his  course. 

"The  gate  in  the  wall  is  open,"  said  Ventriss,  following 
his  glance.  "An  invitation.  Won't  you  flit  over  and  hear 
about  Lady  Blanchard's  jealousy  to-morrow?" 

"So  she's  jealous,  is  she?  I  am  flattered!  But  if  she 
knew  this,  she  would  shift  her  objective  point.  Come, 
Ventriss,  before  I  know  particulars" — 

He  leaned  over  and  kissed  her. 


220 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this ! 

— By  the  Fireside. 

Dorris  waited  through  the  midnight  hours,  but  Paolo 
did  not  come.  She  had  pictured  him  beneath  her  window 
— she  had  heard  him  say  "Buona  notta!"  for  the  twen- 
tieth time,  but  her  thoughts  had  been  as  elusive  as  her 
dream  of  the  Indian  desert.  Yet  still  she  waited,  till  she 
grew  cold  and  numb  in  the  late  dampness.  Her  eyes 
scanned  the  palaces  up  and  down  the  canal,  as  she  fancied 
the  city  born  anew.  All  the  tales  she  had  known  of  Ven- 
ice and  its  love-stories,  from  her  early  childhood,  flooded 
her  mind.  She  saw  all  the  heroines  of  her  boarding-school 
days. 

Yet  now  no  gondola  disappeared  into  a  small  canal,  on 
an  errand  of  intrigue  or  diplomacy;  no  music  came  to  her 
ears  in  the  early  morning.  The  decaying  marble  houses, 
dim,  and  for  the  most  part  unoccupied,  were  the  only 
proof  that  here  there  had  been  a  city  of  mirth  and  song. 
After  all,  she  felt  it  was  her  extreme  youth  that  had 
urged  her  to  expect  Paolo,  a  twentieth  century  portrait 
painter,  to  come  to  her  palazzo  for  the  purpose  of  sere- 
nading her.  Those  days  were  dead,  she  knew,  yet  her 
thoughts  took  their  channels  in  streams  of  laughing  maid- 
ens, courtly  gallants  and  singing  gondoliers. 

221 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

She  told  herself  to  wake  up  to  reality,  and  above  all 
to  modernity,  that  she  was  quite  impossible  and  childish 
for  deliberately  losing  her  night's  rest,  for  thinking  of  a 
man!  Once  between  her  sheets,  she  tried  to  divert  her 
thoughts  by  studying  the  shadows  in  the  corners,  but 
accusing  sinister  voices  seemed  calling  to  her  from  every- 
where. They  were  the  voices  of  centuries  departed 
women  of  this  city,  laughing  and  scoffing  at  her  for  her 
weakness.  One  seemed  to  be  pointing  to  the  white  hairs 
of  Dorris's  old  age,  and  to  her  grinning,  wrinkled  face; 
another  was  speaking  of  the  goodly  feast  of  youth.  They 
were  telling  her  of  her  cowardice,  and  their  strength! 
They  were  calling  her  a  Puritan  woman,  who  would  be 
as  miserable  in  the  yielding  as  in  the  renunciation.  One 
called  out  that  twenty  summers  had  not  enfolded  them- 
selves about  her  yet!  That  life  at  best  was  a  little  day! 
She  knew  they  despised  her,  one  and  all. 

"Voices  of  temptation,"  she  moaned,  as  she  buried  her 
head  in  her  silk  pillow,  "cease  tormenting  me!" 

A  faint  sleep  stole  upon  her  at  last,  from  which  she 
awoke  as  the  first  rosy  tints  of  dawn  chased  away  the 
black  of  night.  A  hope  that  it  was  a  morning  of  her 
seventeenth  summer  that  was  breaking,  took  possession  of 
her,  before  she  realized  she  must  live  another  day  of  hope- 
less conflict  with  heart  and  mind. 

As  her  eyes  found  the  smiling  ones  of  her  father,  while 
she  was  lighting  the  candles,  she  felt  keenly  the  potency 
of  the  new  love,  that  had  for  a  short  time  almost  erased 
the  memory  of  that  dear,  dead  friend.  She  kissed  the 
handsome  face  in  the  frame,  and  passed  into  Cordelia's 
room,  where  she  crept  into  bed  beside  her.  The  coolness 
of  the  contact  woke  the  sleeping  woman,  who  thrust  one 

222 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

arm  about  the  girl,  making  a  pillow  of  her  other  one  for 
the  golden  head.  The  restlessness  of  her  past  night,  the 
yearning  for  sympathy  moved  Dorris  to  tenderness,  when 
she  held  Cordelia's  face  in  her  hands. 

"Poor,  sweet  Cordelia,"  she  murmured,  "I  have 
neglected  you  much  of  late;  I  have  not  been  considerate 
of  you — no,  and  I  have  thought  little  of  Daddy.  But 
I  am  going  to  change.  Oh,  Cordelia !  a  new  and  un- 
dreamed-of sorrow  has  come  to  me.  It  is  calamity!  Mr. 
Barker  was  right.  How  sweet  and  loving  he  was;  how 
kind  and  tender !  I  can  almost  forgive  him  for  being  the 
means  of  Daddy's  sorrow.  Oh,  why  did  I  ever  come  to 
Venice?  Why  didn't  I  go  back  with  Harry?  Oh,  Cor- 
delia, I  am  so  unhappy!" 

Had  Mrs.  Gunter  been  less  familiar  with  Dorris's  tem- 
perament, she  might  have  pursued  a  conversation  on  the 
subject — even  have  chided  her;  but  her  tact  tended  toward 
the  comforting  of  the  child  she  had  practically  brought 
up.  She  merely  whispered  words  of  encouragement  and 
tightened  her  arm  about  her. 

"We  all  have  trials,  dear.  Let  me  help  you.  It  is  all 
right,  sweet.  All  will  be  for  the  best.  Get  some  sleep 
if  you  can." 

"Cordelia,"  breathed  Dorris,  "the  bromides.  I  must 
sleep.  I  must.  I  have  only  rested  for  an  hour  or  so,  no 
more,  and  I  struggled  against  my  sleeplessness.  Won't 
you  give  me  a  dose,  dear?" 

"No,  Dorris.  The  times  when  one  is  most  tempted, 
when  one  is  miserable  and  unhappy,  are  those  when  it  is 
best  to  deny  oneself.  If  you  stem  your  longing  for  an 
unnatural  sleep  when  it  is  the  most  difficult,  it  will  be  eas- 
ier, far  easier  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events.  No, 

223 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

you  must  obey  me.  I  will  not  give  you  the  bromide  now. 
It  is  dangerous  to  encourage  that  habit.  You  may  not 
have  it  till  the  nerves  trouble  you.  It  is  only  for  that 
I  let  you  get  this  sleep  medicine  at  all.  You  are  not  ner- 
vous now?  Tell  me  the  truth." 

"No,  Cordelia,"  she  said,  turning  over;  "no,  I  will 
not  lie  to  you.  It  is  not  nerves;  but  oh,  my  poor  head — 
how  it  throbs;  and  my  heart, — how  it  aches!  Oh,  Cor- 
delia, please  relieve  me !  Not  a  full  dose.  Please !" 

It  would  have  pleased  Cordelia  to  see  the  troubled 
child  sleep,  and  momentary  weakness  and  feminine  sym- 
pathy made  her  refusal  difficult.  To  see  her  beautiful 
Dorris  suffer  caused  a  deep  emotion  in  her  own  heart. 
She  knew  she  could  alleviate  the  pain  and  heart-ache,  but 
saw  the  temptation  in  its  true  light.  She  began  singing  an 
old  lullaby  to  her,  that  her  own  infancy  had  known.  She 
labored  over  Dorris  to  conquer  her  insomnia  as  she  might 
have  over  a  lost  lamb  or  her  own  baby.  Something  of 
the  divinity  of  motherhood  the  girl  felt  in  Cordelia's  coo- 
ing; and  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  marvelled  at 
maternity.  She  could  see  her  dead  mother  clasping  her 
close  in  her  arms,  as  she  was  being  soothed  by  this  lovely 
lullaby.  At  length  her  nerves  became  rested,  the  pains 
in  the  head  were  being  driven  far  away,  and  she  sank  into 
a  deep  slumber,  dreaming  of  a  golden  babe. 

Deftly,  Cordelia  loosened  her  grasp,  rose  and  drew  the 
window  curtains  together.  She  passed  out  of  the  room 
softly,  and  into  Dorris's  room,  where  she  sank  upon  the 
bed.  Tears  that  she  hated,  that  had  never  been  her  weak- 
ness, filled  her  eyes.  Her  throat  felt  dry  and  heavy. 
She  fought  against  the  demon  in  vain,  and  cried  as  pas- 
sionately as  Dorris  had  done  that  night  after  the  dinner 

224 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

at  Casa  Malvoni.  What  she  was  most  striving  for  was 
that  Dorris  would  be  awakened  without  her  aid,  to  the 
cynicism  and  insincerity  of  what  she  now  saw  through  rose- 
coloured  windows. 

Cordelia  had  learned  that  lesson,  the  lesson  that  breaks 
the  hearts  of  most  people,  and  when  learned  drives  all 
their  youth  away.  Many  people  go  through  life  almost 
without  mastering  it.  They  are  the  people  who  are  gifted 
with  so  much  health  and  good  spirits,  that  the  mere  joy 
of  living  makes  it  great  to  exist.  If  they  do,  it  shatters 
their  idols  and  steals  Hope  itself  from  their  hearts. 

It  has  been  truly  said  by  a  great  man,  that  "he  who 
loves  raves,  'tis  youth's  frenzy,"  and  it  is  only  in  very 
early  youth  that  we  love  for  love's  sake;  before  the  gross 
hypocrisy  and  superficiality  of  men  and  women  are  made 
manifest,  and  have  sharpened  a  dagger  against  the  pos- 
sible malice  with  which  we  may  have  to  fight.  Those 
persons,  who,  in  the  unawakened  period,  offer  great  friend- 
ship, are  so  certain  of  receiving  it,  that  the  possibility  of 
being  cheated  never  enters  their  thoughts.  When  the 
knowledge  does  come  they  deem  it  a  mistake,  and  when 
the  truth  at  last  asserts  itself,  life  has  lost  most  of  its 
joy  for  them. 

Cordelia  had  been  of  this  class.  The  infidelity  of  her 
husband  had  cast  a  cloud  over  her  first  youth,  and  pois- 
oned her  against  humanity.  Then  the  dusty  road  of  com- 
mon sense,  which  is  the  salvation  of  many  women,  helped 
her  to  bear  this  and  the  loss  of  Dorris  Goodwood,  for  her 
greatest  grief  had  passed  by  that  time.  From  that  day 
forth,  she  expected  nothing  from  anybody,  and  if  she  did 
receive  anything,  was  merely  pleased.  Her  yard-measure 
of  suspicion  was  so  well  proportioned  that  it  did  not  even 

225 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

pass  Dorris  by  after  years  of  comradeship  and  under- 
standing. Yet  she  was  disappointed, — bitterly  disap- 
pointed, as  she  lay  between  the  girl's  sheets,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  twenty  years!  She  had  always  had  a  pre- 
science that  Dorry  was  more  to  her  than  a  good  friend, 
but  she  had  not  encouraged  it,  dreading  the  day  of  dis- 
appointment that  might  come.  Yet  now  she  knew  that 
Dorris  was  the  only  real  factor  in  her  life,  for  she  was 
childless.  Something  of  her  old  alarms  and  dread  of  the 
truth  filled  her,  and  she  felt  she  had  not  quite  hardened 
herself  against  the  genus  homo.  She  realized  it  had  not 
been  a  deep  interest  she  felt  for  Dorris,  but  a  great  human 
love,  that  sacrifices  and  suffers  for  its  object. 

Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  she  had  failed  in  her  reso- 
lutions and  loved  Dorris  too  well,  had  been  the  cause  of 
her  tears.  Who  knows?  And  who  can  fathom  the  why 
of  a  woman's  tears?  The  strongest  among  them  suc- 
cumb to  them.  Cordelia  was  a  splendid  one — one  who 
had  tasted  of  all  that  life  offers,  except  motherhood.  The 
friendship  of  such  women  is  worth  striving  for. 

She  sat  up  in  bed  and  watched  Aurora  gild  the  City — 
the  City  that  had  borne  so  much !  Something  of  its  his- 
tory of  splendour  filled  her  whole  being,  as  she  gazed  at 
the  reflection  of  her  own  faded  beauty  in  the  mirror.  Ven- 
ice had  its  secrets,  but  she  had  hers  also.  The  great  force 
had  not  passed  her  by.  As  she  studied  her  face,  she  fan- 
cied she  saw  upon  it  the  expression  she  wore  the  night 
she  had  danced  in  Vienna  with  a  celebrated  prince.  How 
long,  long  ago  it  seemed !  She  remembered  his  words  of 
flattery,  saw  again  his  glance  of  admiration. 

Then  flashed  up  her  school  days  and  Dorry  Goodwood. 
She  was  walking  again  with  her  through  Florentine  gar- 

226 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

dens,  their  arms  entwined,  their  hair  in  long,  graceful 
braids.  They  were  talking  once  more  their  cherished 
talks,  speculating  about  life.  Then  the  tragedy  came  up 
before  her,  her  own  love  affair  strangely  entangled  in  it; 
the  grief  brought  about  by  both. 

Theodore  was  talking  to  her  once  more  in  the  garden 
at  Boston;  yes,  he  was  even  asking  her  to  be  his  wife. 
The  long  desired  proposal  had  come,  and  a  little  startled 
cry  escaped  her,  as  she  felt  his  kiss !  Then  Roland  Barker 
seemed  to  be  smiling  across  the  mirror.  All  the  friends 
of  her  vanished  youth  were  encircling  around  her,  and 
always  the 'nearest  were  those  composing  the  curious  tri- 
angle, Dorry,  Fitzgerald,  and  the  fascinating  Mr.  Barker. 
The  days  of  her  girlhood  had  not  thrust  themselves  before 
her  since  she  had  told  Dorris  of  the  melancholy  taint  in 
her  blood.  She  was  not  a  woman  of  dreams.  It  might 
have  been  a  semblance  of  her  old  self  she  had  seen  in  her 
reflection  that  turned  them  to  light.  The  weakness  was 
passed,  but  Cordelia  was  certain  she  would  give  up  her 
very  soul  to  be  twenty  again. 

"  'Si  jeunesse  savait,  si  viellesse  pouvait,'  "  she  mused 
stepping  out  on  one  of  the  balconies,  and  that  was  con- 
futed by — "  'On  ne  peut-etre  jeune,  qu'une  fois.' ' 

The  puffing  of  a  steamboat  told  her  the  world  was  be- 
ginning to  awake,  and  she  returned  cautiously  to  her  own 
room,  chiding  herself  for  having  forgotten  her  kimono 
and  slippers.  She  turned  to  face  Maria. 

"We  will  not  breakfast  till  ten,  to-day,  Maria,"  she 
said,  "be  sure  the  rolls  are  nice  and  hot,  and  do  not  neg- 
lect the  mail  as  you  did  yesterday." 

It  was  Dorris  who  woke  Cordelia  up,  two  or  three 
hours  after,  for  she  had  nestled  into  bed  beside  her.  Her 

227 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

white  face  showed  nothing  of  the  strain  of  the  past  night, 
as  she  greeted  Cordelia  smilingly.  Her  eyes  were  bright, 
and  her  lips  their  highest  crimson. 

"Lazy  Cordelia,"  she  said,  "get  up." 

"No,  Dorris,"  she  answered,  "come  and  rest  till  Maria 
brings  up  the  tray.  I  sent  her  to  the  Piazza  for  mail. 
Qu'il  sa!  there  may  be  some  interesting  letters." 

"You  mean  for  you.  You  see  I  haven't  a  sufficient  num- 
ber of  interesting  friends  to  be  excited  about  my  corre- 
spondence, and  you  have!" 

They  chatted  on  gaily  till  Maria  came  with  their  cof- 
fee and  rolls.  Dorris  received  only  one  letter  to  the 
other's  five. 

"Cordelia,"  she  remarked,  "this  is  from  Harry.  It 
looks  thicker  than  usual.  It  has  for  all  the  world  the 
appearance  of  a  billet  doux." 

"And  why  shouldn't  it  be,  Dorris?  One's  husband  is 
privileged  to  write  love-letters.  Perhaps  it  is.  I  really 
think  you  are  educating  Harry." 

Cordelia  scrutinized  Dorris's  face  as  the  girl  read, — 

n       ^      .  BOSTON,  FRIDAY. 

Dear  Dorris: — 

I  suppose  I  should  have  cabled,  but  you  have  written 
so  seldom,  and  apparently  had  no  interest  whatever  in 
my  affairs,  that  I  thought  it  might  be  better  to  wait  and 
write,  for  it  is  going  to  be  disappointment.  You  see  I 
have  given  you  two  weeks  extra  time  for  dreaming,  by 
not  cabling.  Now  it  must  cease. 

My  father  died  last  week,  and  is  now  buried.  The 
dates  and  particulars  will  not  interest  you  in  the  least, 
so  I  will  not  bore  you  with  them.  It  was  sudden  and 
unexpected,  for  father  was  apparently  in  splendid  condi- 

228 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

tion  for  him  and  getting  along  famously, — a  stroke,  and 
his  death  has  left  mother  in  a  terrible  condition.  The 
doctors  fear  nervous  prostration.  The  various  business 
interests  and  deals  father  was  engaged  in,  and  the  fact 
that  his  will  has  left  me  executor,  render  my  crossing  to 
join  you  as  we  had  planned,  an  impossibility.  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  return — I  command  you!  You  have  had 
your  fun,  and  I'm  not  the  least  bit  sorry  about  it,  but  I 
want  you  with  me  for  many  reasons. 

In  the  first  place  I  am  rather  a  laughing-stock.  You 
know  the  manner  people  have  of  winking,  when  a  chap's 
got  a  stunning  wife  gallivanting  around  Europe,  while  he's 
in  a  dull  city  attending  to  his  father's  affairs,  etc.  I  hate 
to  hear  you  spoken  of  in  such  a  way,  for  I  know  you  are 
no  more  of  a  flirt  than  Edna  Waters.  Still  I  want  you 
here.  It  is  not  selfishness  for  I  have  gone  without  you 
for  some  time.  I  rather  miss  your  smile  and  your  kissing 
lips.  We'll  try  to  be  very  happy  together  when  we  meet 
again.  We  must  both  forgive  lots,  but  you  must  come! 
Every  day  for  over  a  month,  mother  has  said  to  me,  "I 
told  you  so.  You  ran  off  and  married  her,  now  you  must 
suffer.  I  ask  you,  'How  do  you  know  who  she's  running 
around  with?  If  she'd  elope  with  a  man,  she'd  do  any- 
thing !'  "  I  have  tried  to  explain  to  her  the  sheer  absurdity 
of  this,  but  she  seems  to  think  every  girl  who's  as  damned 
good-looking  as  you,  is  out  for  a  good  time.  She  at  least 
can't  say  you  married  me  for  money,  when  I  tell  her  you 
hate  to  be  kissed  (a  hatred,  by  the  way,  you  are  going 
to  get  over)  ! 

I  hope  Mrs.  Gunter  has  succeeded  in  piling  some  sense 
in  your  noodle. 

Dorris  frowned, 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

Don't  be  quite  so  poetic,  and  you'll  find  yourself  a 
lot  better  off.  It's  all  superficial  rot,  anyway — this  dream- 
ing about  antiquities,  poets,  etc.  It's  not  real!  Please 
forget  about  it,  and  above  all  things,  do  not  start  to  scrib- 
ble yourself!  That  would  be  the  last  straw. 

It's  a  fortunate  thing  for  you  that  you  hate  the  news- 
papers. You  would  have  read  of  father's  death.  One's 
fund  of  information  is  never  correct,  or,  I  would  say  good, 
without  their  aid. 

Cable  me  when  you're  coming,  and  no  nonsense  about 
it!  I  won't  have  the  boys  jolly  me  any  more — it's  ridicu- 
lous! We'll  go  over  again  next  summer  maybe,  and  in 
the  meantime  you  can  visit  in  New  York  and  Washing- 
ton, or  go  to  California  if  you  like.  I  am  willing  and 
ready  to  do  all  for  you  in  my  power,  but  you  must  live 
with  me,  not  away  from  me.  We  have  been  married  such 
a  short  time  that  you  really  can't  tell  whether  you're  happy 
or  not.  Come  back,  honey,  and  you'll  find  we'll  be  great 
friends.  I  also  want  you  to  know  mother  better,  dear. 
iYou  ought  to  know  each  other  well. 

Remember,  cable  right  away.  I  shall  wait  patiently 
for  word  from  you,  and  will  run  to  New  York  to  meet 
you.  Then  we  will  stop  at  the  house  there  and  get  it 
renovated  for  our  winter  visits,  though,  of  course  you 
cannot  go  out,  owing  to  the  fact  that  we  are  in  mourning. 
It  might  be  advisable  to  get  some  black  clothes  in  Paris, 
on  your  way  through.  Get  the  first  boat  you  can,  and 
good  luck  to  you ! 

I'll  meet  you  with  one  of  the  cars  at  the  dock. 

Give  my  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Gunter! 
Your  loving  husband, 

HARRY. 

230 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Not  sure  of  the  date.    Too  lazy  to  find  out ! 

H. 

Dorris  handed  the  letter  to  Cordelia. 

"No,  Dorris,"  she  said,  "that  is  not  loyal.  It  is  un- 
kind. If  there  is  anything  that  displeases  you,  tell  me. 
You  didn't  mean  that,  Dorris,  did  you?  You  wouldn't 
pass  your  husband's  letter  for  me  to  read?" 

"Cordelia,"  she  remarked,  sharply,  "I  didn't  expect 
you  were  ever  going  to  give  me  Sunday-school  sermons. 
You  once  refused  to  read  his  letter — but  read  this !  Why 
do  you  try  to  make  me  feel  small?  I  know  what  I  am 
about." 

"What  is  it,  Dorris?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "it's  a  good  thing  I've  had  my 
breakfast  already.  I  certainly  couldn't  have  eaten  a  thing 
after  that!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Harry's  father  is  dead!" 

"When  do  we  have  to  start  back,  Dorris?" 

For  answer  she  laughed. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Cordelia. 

"Why,  Cordelia,"  she  said,  "do  you  suppose  I  am  going 
back?  back  to  go  through  a  year  of  mourning  and  bore- 
dom? back  to  Harry?  back  to  everything  I  hate?  No, 
Cordelia,  I'd  sooner  die!  I'd  sooner  take  prussic  acid 
like  my  mother — I  tell  you,  I  would,  I  would !  He  says 
I  can  stay  in  New  York  or  Washington,  or  even  go  to 
California !  He's  mad,  mad!  He  says  we  must  renovate 
the  New  York  residence,  though  of  course  we  can't  go 
out!  that  I  must  get  my  mourning  clothes  in  Paris,  on 
my  way  backl  He  hopes  you  have  piled  some  sense  in 

231 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

my  noodle — yes,  noodle,  that  was  the  word  of  his  selec- 
tion! He  spoke  sarcastically  about  my  not  wanting  to 
know  about  his  father.  Why  couldn't  he  have  cabled  me, 
as  any  other  man  would  have  done?  Above  all,  why  did 
I  marry  him?" 


232 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Spirit  of  Beauty!  tarry  yet  awhile, 

They  are  not  dead,  thine  ancient  votaries, 
Some  few  there  are  to  whom  thy  radiant  smile 

Is  better  than  a  thousand  victories, 
Though  all  the  nobly  slain  of  Waterloo 
Rise  up  in  wrath  against  them !    Tarry  still, 
there  are  a  few ! 

— The  Garden  of  Eros. 

Felno  rowed  with  alacrity  to  Signor  Bond's  office. 
Dorris  left  the  gondola  and  entered.  Signor  Bonti  was 
out,  but  was  expected  any  minute,  and  if  the  signora 
would  wait,  Zorzi  was  certain  it  would  not  be  for  long. 
It  was  a  hot  morning,  so  she  asked  for  a  chair  and  seated 
herself  beside  the  steps  on  the  dingy  canal,  to  await  the 
agent.  Old  clothes  were  hanging  on  a  line,  suspended  from 
the  tumbling  down  house  opposite  to  the  rooms  above. 

"What  a  strange  thing,"  she  mused,  "this  is  dirt,  but 
it  is  the  most  picturesque  dirt  I  have  ever  seen,  and  even 
that  tumbled  down  place  over  there,  with  the  water  drench- 
ing the  court,  the  roof  leaning  over  at  an  absurd  angle, 
is  marble  1  Even  in  this  deserted  canal,  Venice  was  beau- 
tiful long  ago.  Poor  houses!  they  are  all  levelling  to 
the  waters.  They  are  tottering.  Some  day  they  will 
fall,  and  some  day  the  entire  city  will  have  fallen,  with 
Adria's  waters  and  the  clumsy  piles  the  only  proof  of 
this  once  dazzling  city.  Yet  in  dying,  it  wears  a  smile. 

"Still,  I  suppose  this  is  the  history  of  nations,  as  well 
as  races.  Strange  that  when  a  country  or  city  is  at  its 
zenith  of  glory,  flourishing  in  the  fine  arts,  and  in  every 
cult  of  beauty,  when  it  has  attained  the  highest  culture 

233 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

and  produced  great  monuments  to  commerce,  that  it  is 
beginning  to  decline.  Take  Egypt,  Tyre,  Greece  and 
Rome — the  same  with  them  all.  It  is  true  that  'there  is 
no  hope  for  nations,'  and  is  there  for  people?  When 
a  man  has  acquired  great  knowledge,  and  the  art  of 
living,  he  is  too  old  to  put  either  to  use.  When  a  woman, 
in  the  prime  of  her  beauty,  begins  to  learn  the  truths  and 
lessons  of  life,  when  she  knows  the  rules  of  the  game, 
how  to  finesse,  how  to  play  a  hand  well,  weak  in  suit,  the 
honours  are  taken  away.  Instead  of  the  ace  or  queen, 
the  ten  spot  offers  itself  only  occasionally;  then  a  nine 
may  turn  up  often,  and  so  on  down  the  numbers  till  at 
length  she  holds  but  one  trump,  and  though  credited  with 
great  ability  and  brains,  it  is  nevertheless  generally  admit- 
ted that  a  still  greater  power  is  gone — the  soft  curves, 
light  step,  gay  heart  and  irresponsible  spirit  have  van- 
ished, leaving  only  the  smile  that  plays  about  the  eyes. 
I  have  not  thought  very  much  about  the  cruelty  of  life. 
It  has  always  seemed  so  beautiful  to  me.  Dear  Cordelia, 
if  my  youth  went  hand  in  hand  with  her  sense !  It  must 
be  the  law  of  compensation,  as  Paolo  told  me.  We  always 
pay  a  price  for  what  we  get.  I  hope  every  one  does — 

"How  caressing  the  water  over  there  is  as  it  splashes 
around  the  sunken  steps.  It  has  wooed  them  till  the 
green  sea-weed  is  like  a  mantle  thrown  over  them.  What 
a  weird  yet  attractive  colour  it  is,  seen  through  the  water, 
and  what  dirty  water,  but  a  nice  dirty!" 

Signor  Bonti  turned  into  the  canal,  rowing  his  sandolo. 
He  spoke  courteously  to  Dorris. 

"Signor  Bonti,"  she  said,  "I  have  troubled  you  very 
much  about  the  other  story  of  our  palace,  and  as  there 
are  no  tenants  still,  may  I  have  the  key  again  ?  I  fancied 

234 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

I  should  like  to  roam  through  the  rooms  to-day,  as  I  know 
of  no  other  way  of  passing  my  time." 

The  little  man  hastened  to  do  her  a  civility. 

"And,  Signer  Bonti,"  she  continued,  "Oh,  Signer  Bonti, 
I  forgot  to  ask  you  before.  What  is  that  strange  deco- 
rated thing  on  the  second  floor?  It  is  set  in  intaglio.  Is 
there  something  secret  about  it?" 

"Yes,  signora,"  he  replied,  "that  was  the  poison  closet 
of  the  Torn!  family.  There  are  still  the  same  bottles, 
the  same  daggers  they  used  to  employ.  If  the  signora 
would  like  I  will  send  for  Signor  Bencio.  He  and  I, 
alone  know  the  workings  of  the  mysterious  chest.  Even 
Conte  Fania,  who  owns  the  whole  palace  does  not  know 
of  its  existence.  If  the  signora  will  permit,  I  will  send 
for  him.  I  would  consider  it  a  favour  if  I  could  show 
you  this  clever  bit  of  work." 

"Oh,  I  should  love  to  examine  it,"  said  Dorris,  her  eyes 
brightening;  "to  think  I  never  knew  of  it  before,  though 
I  think  my  father  had  some  speculations  about  it.  Some- 
how I  never  took  an  interest  in  it.  I  fancied  it  was  a 
vault  of  some  sort,  but  neglected  asking  you  about  it." 

"If  the  signora  will  permit,  I  will  get  Bencio  immedi- 
ately. He  lives  near  here,  and  I'm  sure  to  find  him  in. 
There  are  also  some  beautiful  gowns  which  may  interest 
the  signora.  One  belonged  to  the  wife  of  a  doge;  then 
there  are  several  of  the  Torni  family.  They  were  for 
state  occasions,  and  as  the  embroideries  and  brocades  were 
priceless,  they  were  concealed.  They  are  most  beautiful, 
signora.  On  some  of  them  are  embroidered  precious 
stones.  There  are  a  good  many  accessories  for  ladies' 
attire,  that  the  signora  would  appreciate  better  than  I, — 
such  as  hair  ornaments,  and  so  forth." 

235 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Why,  Signer  Bonti,"  exclaimed  Dorris,  stupefied  with 
delight,  "how  wonderfully  interesting.  What  is  this  secret 
place — a  chest?  With  the  poisons  separate  from  the 
attire?" 

"Si,  signora.  That  is  it  exactly.  The  signora  is  very 
clever.  The  poison  closet  is  composed  of  five  or  six 
shelves,  and  each  one  of  them  is  filled  with  deadly  poisons. 
The  Torni  closet  was  supposed  to  have  contained  every 
known  poison  in  the  late  Renaissance.  They  are  grue- 
some, signora.  The  vials  and  bottles  are  so  old  and  dusty. 
They  are  fantastically  moulded.  One  of  the  very  dead- 
liest poisons  is  concealed  in  the  rarest  of  perfumes  and 
encased  in  a  bottle  most  exquisitely  carved.  Artificial 
flowers  whose  petals  once  exhaled  deadly  vapours,  and 
gloves  (such  as  were  once  used  by  Marie  de  Medici  to 
poison  the  Queen  of  Navarre,  and  carefully  preserved 
under  glass)  interested  us  particularly.  It  was  most  inter- 
esting the  way  we  came  upon  these  things.  Four  or  five 
years  ago  when  Conte  Fania  put  the  palazzo  up  for  rent, 
he  came  to  me.  I  was,  of  course,  given  possession  of  the 
keys,  and  privileged  to  make  a  thorough  tour  of  the  build- 
ing so  as  to  enable  myself  to  differentiate  between  it  and 
the  houses  on  my  list.  Bencio  and  I  went  together  one 
morning.  I  shall  never,  never  forget  that  day.  He  was 
exploring  the  upper  story,  while  I  remained  awe-struck, 
gazing  at  the  frescoed  ball-room.  He  rushed  onto  the 
staircase,  and  gave  a  delighted  cry.  Then  he  led  me 
to  the  Intaglio  which  was  raised  on  hinges,  and  showed 
me  his  proud  find.  We  examined  it  carefully;  it  seems 
he  had  been  meddling  with  it  out  of  curiosity,  and  by 
mere  chance  had  pressed  the  spring;  a  thing  which  would 
hardly  have  happened  once  in  a  thousand  years.  We 

236 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

experimented  with  it  for  some  time,  and  afterward  ran- 
sacked Italy  in  the  effort  to  secure  information  as  to  the 
Torni  secrets.  Books  we  found  in  plenty,  but  most  of 
them  told  little;  at  last,  in  the  memoirs  of  Principe  Gio- 
vanni Torni,  we  found  a  detailed  account.  Then  we  ex- 
amined the  closet  again,  and  found  our  indices  for  the 
most  part  correct.  Bencio  has  those  memoirs  now.  Con- 
fident of  Conte  Fania's  ignorance  of  this  mystery,  we 
agreed  to  keep  silence  concerning  it,  and  that  is  how  it 
all  came  about,  signora." 

Bonti  grinned  in  quest  of  approbation. 

"So  Conte  Fania  does  not  know?"  asked  Dorris.  "How 
splendid!  And  how  good  of  you  to  have  told  me.  I 
may  consider  myself  highly  flattered,  may  I  not?  Thank 
you  so  much,  Signor  Bonti.  You  must  keep  your  promise, 
and  show  me  the  case.  To-day  I  am  feminine  enough  to 
be  more  interested  in  the  old  laces  and  brocades  you  spoke 
of.  Why,  Signor  Bonti,  this  is  like  living  in  a  fairy  tale; 
I  have  only  read  of  such  marvels;  I  never  dreamt  of  ex- 
periencing them !  Don't  tantalize  me  by  delays,  signore ; 
send  for  this  Signor  Bencio.  And  Americans  say  that  the 
modern  Italian  lives  upon  the  money  squeezed  from  our 
tourists !  Why,  you  did  not  even  tamper  with  the  jewelled 
robes!  It  is  incredible — but,  oh,  excuse  me!  I  didn't 
mean  that.  Yet  there  may  be  a  fortune  in  them." 

"Ah,  signora,"  he  said,  a  note  of  pathos  in  his  voice, 
"the  Italian  aristocracy  is  degenerating.  Look  at  Conte 
Fania !  His  estates  are  impoverished,  he  is  poor.  I  was 
very,  very  wrong  to  keep  my  secret  from  him,  but,  fond 
of  art  as  he  is,  I  knew  the  finds  in  the  closet  would  tempt 
him.  I  did  not  wish  to  put  temptation  inliis  way,  signora. 
As  you  say,  there  may  be  a  fortune  in  gems  and  brocades 

237 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

there.  He  might  have  sold  them.  The  concealed  dag- 
gers would  have  brought  a  great  price.  Even  now  he 
might  sell  them.  Venice  is  denuded  of  much — save  her 
marble  walls  and  frescoes.  It  is  better  to  have  the  treas- 
ures hidden  away  amidst  the  dust  of  ages  than  to  see  them 
leave  Venice — worse  still,  leave  Italy !  I  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  foreign  hands  going  over  them.  They  are  sacred, 
and,  as  I  said,  valuable.  Forgive  me  for  saying  foreign. 
But  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  anything  Venetian  being 
defiled  by  a  race  of  new  people,  out  of  spirit  with  my  city 
that  I  love.  Now,  those  poisons,  though  they  awaken 
cruel  imaginings  of  the  past,  those  dresses,  belonged  to  a 
family  great  in  history,  a  family  of  princes,  fighters  and 
lovers.  They  may  have  been  bad,  bad,  bad,  but  they  were 
Venetians!  No,  no,  signora,  so  far  as  in  me  lies,  the 
modern  spirit  shall  not  ruin  the  little  we  have  left.  Better, 
far  better,  the  treasures  lie  undiscovered  to  the  world,  oh, 
far  better!  The  signora  loves  my  city,  I  know,  and  so 
she  must  see  what  will  give  her  as  much  delight  as  it  gave 
me.  Pray  forgive  me,  signora,  for  having  forgotten 
myself." 

"Oh,  Signor  Bonti,"  she  murmured,  "you  have  made 
me  cry.  Yours  is  the  ancient  loyalty  that  I  love  in  song. 
Forgive  you  ?  Why,  your  patriotic  devotion  to  your  coun- 
try's past  makes  me  proud  to  know  you.  Such  sentiments 
to  cynics  sound  like  cant,  but  in  your  voice  rings  the  true 
note.  It  trembled  when  you  said,  'But  they  were  Vene- 
tians' Ah,  signore,  there  is  something  the  modern  world 
lacks — particularly  the  modern  nations,  abounding  as  they 
do  in  politics  and  commerce — something  of  a  real  cul- 
ture, which  even  a  cocker  might  possess  here.  Perhaps 
some  day,  we  of  the  West  will  acquire  it,  but  it  can  never 

238 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

be  the  same  as  that  which  is  innate  in  you.  Such  senti- 
ments as  yours  might  be  regarded  as  effeminate  by  some. 
Ah,  Signer  Bonti,  how  much  I  love  your  city,  you  can 
never,  never  know.  Don't  despair,  Signor  Bonti.  The 
sense  of  beauty  is  not  dead.  There  are  those  who  can 
weep  because  they  feel  what  is  exquisite  so  deeply.  Sig- 
nor Bonti,  let  me  shake  your  hand." 

He  responded  with  an  air  of  pleased  embarrassment, 
looking  with  frank  admiration  into  the  brimming  blue  of 
her  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  signora.  Do  you  prefer  to  wait  here  until 
I  summon  Bencio,  or  will  you  come  back  a  little  later? 
I  am  entirely  at  your  service  in  the  matter,  signora." 

"I  will  take  the  opportunity  to  visit  the  Palazzo  Papa- 
dopoli  where  I  have  not  been  since  I  was  in  Venice  last." 

On  her  way  thither  a  few  moments  later,  Dorris  was 
idly  considering  her  power  over  Bonti,  which  had  evi- 
dently led  to  his  revealing  the  wonders  of  a  private  his- 
tory so  interesting  and  at  the  same  time  so  sacred  to  him. 
Pretty  women  are  accredited  with  having  the  world  at 
their  feet — and  the  experience  of  the  past  few  weeks  was 
causing  her  to  debate  with  herself  how  far  she  may  have 
undervalued  her  power.  For  there  really  could  be  no 
doubt  that  Cenari,  being  a  man,  felt  the  influence  which 
Bonti  took  no  pains  to  conceal;  and  his  indifference  was 
a  cloak — to  what?  Dorris  felt  her  heart  suddenly  beat- 
ing fast  as  she  hurried  to  fill  in  the  time  before  she  should 
again  see  Bonti. 

To  her  doubt  and  discomfiture,  it  was  of  Cenari  she 
was  still  thinking  when,  within  the  hour,  she  mounted 
with  Bonti  and  Bencio  to  the  second  floor  of  the  Palazzo 
Spechio-Torni.  Bonti  carried  matches  in  his  pocket,  and 

239 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

an  old  candelabrum  in  his  hands;  and  as  they  drew  near 
the  strange  intaglio,  he  provided  a  light. 

Then  before  Dorris  realized  what  was  taking  place, 
the  cover  of  the  intaglio  rose  on  rusty  hinges,  and  a  dark, 
dusty  curtain  stood  revealed.  She  shuddered  as  her  fin- 
gers went  out  to  touch  it,  and  drew  back,  while  Bonti 
pulled  it  to  one  side.  Many  shelves  extended  back  indefin- 
itely to  the  obscure  wall,  and  from  her  position,  Dorris 
could  not  ascertain  their  depth.  But  their  contents  were 
a  conglomeration  of  cut-glass  vials,  grotesque  figures 
which  might  contain  deadly  fluids  or  the  rarest  incense  or 
be  their  own  excuse  by  virtue  of  the  intricacy  of  their  de- 
sign ;  girdles,  daggers,  sword-blades,  and  last  but  not  least, 
artificial  flowers  1 

The  bottom  shelf  was  empty  and  Bonti  tried  vainly  to 
remove  it;  at  last  it  gave  way  with  a  crash  and  showed  a 
chest  below.  Dorris  leaned  over  eagerly  and  peered  in, 
to  see  a  vision  of  rose  brocade. 

"Gowns!"  she  exclaimed,  falling  back  in  surprise. 
Cinque-cento  gowns!  Oh,  Signer  Bonti,  do  let  me  see 
them." 

The  old  man  smiled,  and  she  waited  there  while  he 
laid  gown  upon  gown  on  the  marble  in  front  of  her,  with 
richly  ornamented  fans,  medallions,  and  the  rarest  of 
laces.  Dorris  fairly  crowed  in  glee,  taking  up  in  turn 
each  thing  he  handed  out,  marvelling  at  its  beauty,  won- 
dering at  its  age  and  history,  until  something  which 
rivalled  it  was  added  to  the  growing  pile  under  her  elbow. 
For  she  was  kneeling  before  these  glories  of  some  dead- 
and-gone  princess,  as  at  a  shrine. 

"Do  look  at  this  purple  velvet  mantle  bordered  with 
gold  and  pearls  and  lined  with  lavender  brocade."  Suiting 

240 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

the  action  to  the  word,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  threw 
it  over  her  shoulder,  adjusting  the  folds  on  the  left  side. 

Bonti  and  Bencio  gave  a  simultaneous  whistle,  and  one 
of  them  threw  open  with  a  quick  motion  the  door  of  a 
room  near  at  hand. 

"Stand  before  that  mirror,  signora,"  she  heard  Bonti 
saying,  "and  see  history  repeat  itself!" 

Already  she  was  gazing  into  the  dusty  glass,  wherein 
the  faint  suggestion  of  imperial  purple  asserted  itself. 
Disdaining  the  dust,  she  drew  her  hand  across  the  smooth 
surface,  and  then  posed  and  pirouetted,  while  Bonti  and 
Bencio  like  faithful  slaves  brought  in  to  her  the  pile  upon 
the  floor  in  the  corridor,  and  awaited  developments  with 
admiring  indulgence. 

The  gown  which  caused  her  the  most  speculation  and 
delight  was  a  heavy  pale  pink  silk  studded  with  pink  sap- 
phires and  girdled  with  gems.  This  she  held  up  against 
her  dress  again  and  again.  The  lady  who  had  worn  it  was 
not  so  tall  as  Dorris,  but  the  girl  mixed  up  dreams  of 
Cenari's  admiration  as  an  artist  with  visions  of  this  prin- 
cess in  life.  Anyway,  this  lady  had  Dorris's  own  eye  for 
colour — and  it  was  her  favourite !  She  caressed  every  fold 
of  its  silken  softness  until  a  mark  on  the  train  arrested  her 
attention. 

"Some  gallant  stepped  on  that  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  years  ago,"  said  Bonti. 

"You  don't  suppose,"  asked  Dorris  slowly,  "that  these 
have  been  hidden  away  ever  since  the  last  Torni  died?" 
And  in  Bonti's  reply  and  the  distraction  of  her  attention 
by  a  feathered  ornament  and  another  robe  of  splendour, 
she  lost  all  thought  of  the  poisons  which  had  originated 
her  interest  in  the  intaglio. 

241 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Speaking  of  fortunes,"  she  laughed,  "why,  Signor 
Bonti,  you  haven't  the  slightest  conception  of  what  these 
beautiful  silks  and  gems  are  worth.  They  would  make 
you  as  rich  as  Golconda !" 

He  laughed  at  her  exaggeration  as  he  carried  the  robes 
back  and  left  them  in  the  chest.  The  purple  mantle  and 
the  pink  brocade  had  been  left  on  the  chair  with  the  orna- 
ment for  the  hair  which  she  had  so  admired,  and  were 
still  overlooked  as  Bonti  helped  Bencio  to  readjust  the 
shelf  over  the  chest  containing  the  others. 

"And,  now,"  cried  the  girl,  "the  poisons!" 

From  the  second  shelf  she  drew  a  long  gold  ornament, 
once  used  no  doubt  as  a  pendant  for  a  girdle. 

Bonti  looked  at  it  in  wonder. 

"I  know  what  it  was  for,"  said  Dorris,  delightedly.  "It 
hung  from  a  girdle  like  the  one  on  the  pink  brocade." 

"Just  so,"  agreed  the  Italian,  and  twisted  a  band  at 
the  top.  Then  he  pulled,  and  a  fine  steel  dagger  leaped 
up  as  out  of  its  sheath.  "Mrs.  Van  Lennep,"  he  went 
on,  "on  this  dagger  was  a  poison  so  deadly  that  the  mere 
contact  of  its  steel  in  the  slightest  of  incisions  in  the  human 
flesh  caused  death  in  a  few  hours.  Think  of  the  mystery 
surrounding  such  a  taking  off.  I  fancy  even  to-day  the 
poison  lingers  on  the  blade." 

"What  a  wonderful  piece  of  workmanship,"  she  said, 
admiring  its  construction.  "The  old  Venetians  were  in- 
deed skillful — in  the  trade  of  murder." 

Other  poison  daggers  were  examined  but  of  less  inge- 
nious pattern;  and  Dorris  turned  impatiently  from  them 
to  the  cut-glass  bottles,  showing  a  little  hesitancy  at  being 
the  first  to  touch  them — but  so  engrossed  in  the  search 
that  the  two  men  exchanged  questioning  glances. 

242 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Bonti  took  from  her  hands  a  vial  corked  in  such  a  man- 
ner that  she  could  not  find  the  opening,  and  replaced  it 
with  a  showing  of  haste. 

"Has  not  the  signora  seen  enough  of  poisons?"  He 
commented  with  a  bow  and  smile.  "That  little  bottle 
might  give  forth  fumes  to  kill.  Does  the  signora  court 
sudden  death?" 

"What  was  it?"  she  asked. 

"Prussic  add''  he  responded,  with  a  look  at  Bencio  as 
she  turned  her  head. 

A  shudder  was  convulsing  her,  and  she  would  not  have 
these  men  know,  but  her  nerves  were  tingling  to  lay  her 
hand  upon  that  vial  and  in  defiance  of  Bonti  run  down 
the  stairs  with  it.  Try  as  she  would,  she  knew  that  she 
was  staring  at  it — and  that  Bonti  was  watching  her  in 
curiosity.  Soon  her  secret  would  be  known,  and  strangers 
would  come  to  Cordelia — worse  still,  to  Cenari — and  bid 
them  beware  of  giving  her  liberty. 

Suddenly  she  wheeled  about,  and  went  back  into  the 
room  where  the  brocade  dress  and  mantle  still  lay  across 
the  chair. 

"Signor  Bonti,  see,"  she  called  in  a  moment,  quite  for- 
getting her  distress,  "you  have  forgotten  these.  Come 
and  see." 

He  came  in  alone. 

"Forgotten  —  yes,"  he  said.  "I  did  forget  them  at 
first.  But  now  I  do  not  forget.  That  is  the  duchess's 
gown  I  told  you  of.  The  mantle  belonged  to  her  hus- 
band. No,  signora,  they  go  back  into  the  chest  no  more." 

Dorris  stared  at  him. 

"Who  knows,"  he  continued,  "but  that  you  have  a  bet- 
ter right  to  them  than  I,  to  hold  them  from  Conte  Fania  ? 

243 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Who  knows  but  you  may  be  a  re-incarnation  of  that 
duchess?" 

"Signore!  Think  of  the  mantle  of  a  doge,  the  ball- 
gown of  a  Venetian  duchess!  What  sacrilege!  But  what 
a  compliment!  What  a  compliment — to  me!" 

"There  is  no  one  but  we  three  who  knows  of  the  exist- 
ence of  these  things.  And  the  centuries  that  have  passed ! 
Signora,  I  am  sure  a  fifteenth  century  Venetian  would 
have  rewarded  your  admiration  by  bequeathing  to  you 
the  gown." 

"But,  Signer  Bonti,"  she  protested,  "I  do  not  want  to 
seem  ungrateful,  but" — 

"I  understand;  you  think  I  have  no  right  to  dispose 
of  them.  And  yet,  consider;  what  right  have  the  living 
with  the  things  of  the  dead?  or  what  right  has  Conte 
Fania  with  glories  he  does  not  know  of,  or  would  scarcely 
love  as  you  do,  if  he  knew?  Suppose  we  put  it  another 
way:  Venice  herself  is  the  donor.  She  has  been  keeping 
these  things  hidden  for  you — for  you,  alone.  I  am  a 
Venetian,  not  alone  by  birth,  but  in  spirit,  and  I  know 
whereof  I  speak.  That  robe  and  mantle  go  back  into  the 
chest  no  more." 

The  girl  sat  down  and  buried  her  face  on  her  arm,  hid- 
ing her  tears.  When  she  lifted  her  head,  the  dust  which 
she  had  wiped  from  the  mirror  was  streaked  across  her. 
face. 

"Signor  Bonti,  you  make  a  baby  of  me;  you  touch  me  so 
very  deeply.  You  would  not  dispose  of  these  things  your- 
self, but  you  would  give  them  to  me — to  a  woman  who 
merely  has  rented  the  palace  through  your  intercession. 
Why  not  give  them  to  some  friend  who  loves  beauty  as 
I  do,  yet  would  shudder  to  take  them  from  Venice?" 

244 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

Signer  Bonti  lifted  the  garments  upon  his  arm,  and 
carried  them  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  staircase,  for 
all  the  world  as  he  might  have  carried  his  own  child.  As 
Dorris  followed  at  his  heels,  she  noted  in  a  passing  glance 
the  streak  of  dust  on  her  face,  and  this — with  the  thought 
of  Bonti's  determined  air — momentarily  diverted  her. 

At  the  door  of  the  ball-room,  the  Italian  paused  and 
divested  himself  of  the  treasures  he  carried. 

"We  cannot  leave  them  here,"  she  laughed.  "I  sup- 
pose it  means  that  they  are  really  mine.  Signer  Bonti, 
may  I  keep  the  key  to  that  room  up  there?  I  love  to 
wander  where  my  father  spent  so  many  happy  hours." 

For  answer  he  put  the  bulky  iron  in  her  hand. 


245 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Though  thy  soul  with  my  grief  was  acquainted, 
It  shrunk  not  to  share  it  with  me. 

— Stanzas  to  Augusta. 

"Dorry,  dear,"  said  Cordelia,  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  when  the  girl  had  visited  the  poison  closet,  "let's  drift 
off  somewhere  until  evening.  Felno  hasn't  had  much  to 
do  lately,  and  he  ought  to  feel  in  condition  to  take  us 
cheerfully  through  every  canal,  and  across  and  back  both 
lagoons.  What  do  you  say  to  that?  We  have  had  no 
sight-seeing  at  all  this  summer.  Why  not  visit  some  of 
our  old  haunts?" 

"Just  as  you  like,  Cordelia.  I  would  do  anything  to 
get  into  the  sun.  Besides,  I  am  restless;  there  is  nothing 
happy  in  me." 

They  changed  their  gowns  for  dainty  white  batiste  ones. 
Dorris  wore  her  flowered  hat  and  carried  her  favourite 
pink  parasol,  and  complained  bitterly  of  boredom  and  the 
sultriness  of  the  day  as  they  left  the  Spechio-Torni  steps. 
Everything  one  had  to  do  seemed  to  bear  some  outlandish 
relation  to  dressing  and  moving  about,  when  one  would 
rather  rest — if  rest  in  solitude  were  possible. 

"Anywhere  and  everywhere,"  was  Cordelia's  order  to 
Felno.  "We  want  to  drift  all  afternoon,  and  you  know 
how  to  make  that  as  agreeable  as  we  can  tell  you.  So  we 
leave  it  to  you." 

Dorris  laughingly  chided  her  friend  for  the  mistakes 
she  made  in  Italian.  "Sometimes  you  are  quite  impos- 
sible, Cordy,  dear,"  she  said. 

246 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

They  crossed  the  canal  and  entered  one  of  shaded  cool- 
ness. The  gondolier  seemed  to  be  in  full  sympathy  with 
their  mood.  The  motion  of  the  gondola  was  in  harmony 
with  it.  The  oar  skimmed  the  water,  and  they  sped  on 
as  lightly  and  irresponsibly  as  a  bird  whose  wing  just 
grazed  the  surface.  There  is  nothing  quite  so  soothing, 
so  luxurious  as  this  motion,  this  drifting  of  the  old-time 
gondola.  The  exquisite  rhythm,  the  ease,  and  the  silence 
influenced  Dorris  for  the  time  like  passages  in  a  symphony; 
and  she  was  quite  irritable  when  Cordelia  broke  in  upon 
her  reverie  by  inquiring — apropos  of  nothing — just  what 
she  proposed  to  do. 

Dorris  frowned  and  was  silent.  The  boat  drifted  on, 
Felno  making  first  one  turn,  then  another,  and  at  last 
choosing  a  long,  narrow  canal  bounded  by  garden  walls 
with  overhanging  vines. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do?"  Dorris  asked  at  last.  "Do 
you  see  those  vines?  Well,  I  am  going  to  stay  here  to 
see  them  turn  a  golden  brown.  I  shall  see  the  city  in 
the  grip  of  winter,  too.  But  first,  I  think  of  the  autumn, 
more  glorious  than  the  spring." 

Cordelia  forced  a  smile,  as  she  said,  "Well,  of  course, 
I  did  not  ask  whether  you  would  see  autumn  before  win- 
ter. But  you  will  see  it  in  America,  will  you  not?" 

"I  sometimes  think  it  may  be  destiny,  and  that  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned  America  is  erased  from  the  map." 

"Oh,  Dorris,  dear !  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you  behind. 
And  Harry  expects  a  cable  from  you  any  day  now.  We 
could  catch  a  steamer  at  Naples  or  go  to  Cherbourg  or 
Havre"— 

"Or  Liverpool  or  Southampton,  or" — 

"Dorris,  won't  you  consider  your  position  carefully?" 

247 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"How?" 

"The  relation  of  your  present  conduct  to  your  future 
happiness." 

"Why  not  the  relation  of  my  present  happiness  to  my 
future  conduct.  There  is  more  point  to  that,  you  see. 
Cordelia,"  her  voice  sinking  and  becoming  more  serious, 
"I  am  as  happy  as  I  ever  can  be,  considering  the  change 
that  has  come  over  me.  And  I  do  not  mean  to  stir." 

"Well,  if  you  are  trying  to  make  your  life  a  poem,  if 
you  are  convinced  that  you  are  not  made  for  the  hum- 
drum existence  that  most  of  us  women  have  to  endure, — I 
know  how  you  can  succeed.  Not  a  lyric  poem,  but  an  epic." 

"Epic,  is  it?  Dear  me,  what  next?  In  such  a  beauti- 
ful place,  too!" 

"What  is  your  aim  in  life,  Dorris?  Have  you  no  am- 
bition? Is  your  life  to  go  on  like  this"  — 

"I  sincerely  hope  not,  Cordelia;  but  whatever  I  am 
thinking  of  will  amount  to  nothing.  I  am  too  weak." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  mean  'too  strong'?" 

"No,  thank  goodness !  I  know  better.  I  mean  w-e-a-k, 
weak." 

Cordelia  sighed:   "It  is  too  bad." 

"You  seem  to  know  all  about  it,  Cordelia." 

"Yes,  Dorris,  I  do.  Do  you  suppose  I  could  have 
watched  your  transformation  from  the  shapeless  cater- 
pillar to  the  chrysalis  and  thence  into  a  gorgeous  butterfly 
with  golden  wings,  without  knowing  the  stages,  without 
knowing  almost  to  a  certainty  where  you  are  now?" 

Dorris  looked  at  her  eagerly. 

"Then  if  you  know  it  all  so  well, — if  you  understand  so 
thoroughly,  tell  me  this:  What  would  you  do  if  we  were 
to  change  places  this  instant?" 

248 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"That  is  what  I  have  been  trying  to  figure  out  for  ever 
so  long,  girlie;  and  I  think  I  know." 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake,  go  on." 

"You  are  a  bride  of  one  man,  in  love  with  another;  at 
least  with  an  imitation  of  a  man." 

"That  is  pretty  hard,  from  you." 

"Never  mind.  He  knows  it  himself — what  I  think  of 
him.  I  have  made  no  secret  of  it.  It  amuses  him.  Now, 
leaving  out  the  question  of  difference  in  age,  heredity, 
nationality,  leaving  out  even  the  question  of  social  de- 
cency, of  religion  as  even  this  man  understands  it,  of  hon- 
our, of  law, — I  say,  leaving  these  things  out,  and  consider 
in  the  abstract,  a  woman  married  to  one  man  and  in  love 
with  another,  what  would  you  think  of  her?  That  she 
ought  to  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence  and  ruin  her  life, 
or  as  the  poet  sayeth,  'flee  from  the  wrath  to  come?' 
Come,  now;  answer  me." 

"You  are  getting  merry,  Cordy."  Dorris  stared  at  a 
passing  boat  for  a  moment.  Then  she  looked  at  her 
friend  who  was  studying  her.  "What  is  the  problem 
you  are  asking  me  to  solve?" 

"The  position  of  a  married  woman,  leaving  out  details 
— just  considering  her  duty  on  its  merits,  as  a  practical 
matter,  shunting  romance?" 

"Duty  again?  Horrors!  Why,  even  the  circumstances 
are  taken  into  consideration — even  they  are  considered  to 
extenuate  the  taking  of  a  life,  and  you  ask  me  to  consider 
a  thing  which,  as  you  put  it,  is  not  my  problem  at  all.  To 
ask  me  what  I  would  think  a  woman's  duty  to  be  who 
was  in  love  with  another  man  than  her  husband,  and  not 
remember  that  one  man  was  Harry  Van  Lennep  and  the 
other  Paolo  Cenari.  Why,  it  is  like  trumping  your  part- 

249 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

ner's  ace  to  go  to  work  on  a  point  like  that.  And  you  are 
much  too  clever  to  play  in  that  way,  seriously,  Cordelia." 

"I  am  playing  no  game,  honey.  I  am  putting  the  ques- 
tion to  you  as  the  world  puts  it  to  women.  And  I  wish 
you  would  answer  it  here  and  now." 

"If  you  put  it  in  that  way,  of  course;  a  woman  who 
finds  herself  legally  bound  should  be  faithful  to  the  tie. 
I  never  thought  of  it  in  any  other  way.  To  answer  your 
question  as  the  world  would  ask  it,  I  would  have  the  hus- 
band go  about  with  a  blunderbuss  in  his  hand  and  fire  in 
his  eye.  I  would  have  the  woman  shown  no  mercy,  as,  of 
course,  I  could  not  see  any  possible  excuse  for  her.  And 
as  to  the  man — the  dishonourable  scamp  who  would  even 
look  at  a  married  woman! — I  would  have  him  skinned 
alive  and  hung  up  to  dry." 

Cordelia  did  not  smile. 

"Seriously,  Cordy,  it's  not  like  you  to  try  to  corner 
me,"  the  girl  went  on. 

"Dorris,  do  you  suppose  that  in  every  single  case  of 
this  kind,  excuses  are  not  made — to  the  laughter  of  soci- 
ety— by  the  woman  and  by  the  man?  And  the  husband. 
He  is  in  this  case  young,  handsome,  with  a  sufficiently 
good  lineage,  and  the  kindest  of  intentions  toward  all  the 
world,  and  especially  so  toward  his  wife.  He  met  his  fate 
in  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  a  right  to 
expect  would  bear  his  name  without  reproach.  I  say  the 
right  to  expect  it,  by  virtue  of  her  home-training,  by  the 
blood  in  her  veins,  by  the  culture  which  was  her  birth- 
right. But  the  girl  had  something  in  heredity" — 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Dorris,  "that  is  my  problem." 

"Yes.  Well,  you  know  it  now,  if  you  did  not  before. 
Your  life  with  your  aunt,  however  unpleasant,  did  not 

250 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

excuse  the  wrong  you  did  your  husband  in  marrying  him 
— no,  not  even  if  he  understood." 

"Oh,  Cordelia,  that  is  not  it.  It  is  that  my  husband 
is  Harry  Van  Lennep  who  does  not  even  know  how  to 
love." 

"Indeed.  That  is  to  say,  he  has  not  the  romantic  devo- 
tion of  a  man  whose  ancestors  fought  duels  in  the  Renais- 
sance over  other  men's  wives,  while  they  betrayed  their 
own !  No  wonder  the  memory  in  the  blood  helps  the 
descendant  to  play  so  successfully  at  love  which  his  ances- 
tors may  have  felt." 

"But  Harry  is  the  essence  of  the  glaringly  modern.  It 
sickens  me  with  love  itself  to  consider  what  he  can  give 
me;  it  is  so  bloodless.  It  turns  red  corpuscles  white." 

"Still,  the  fact  remains  that  many  girls  would  have 
jumped  at  the  chance  he  offered  to  you;  that  he  might 
have  found  a  wife  who  would  have  done  her  duty, 
smoothed  over  the  rough  parts  of  life,  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  him.  In  a  word,  he  might  easily  have 
found  a  wife  of  whom  he  might  have  been  proud,  who 
would  not  have  elected  to  stay  behind  when  he  went  back 
to  his  father's  death-bed." 

"Well,  for  my  part,  I  sincerely  wish  he  had." 

"We  are  facing  facts,  Dorris,  not  theories, — and  if  you 
will  let  me  say  it,  the  threats  of  heredity." 

"Then  what's  the  use  of  trying?  Everything  that 
happens  was  mapped  out  ages  before  I  was  born." 

"You  have  a  chance  to  change  the  map.  It  lies  within 
your  will.  But  Cenari  will  not  help  you,  remember 
that." 

"I  did  not  scheme  to  love  him.  I  did  not  love  him  at 
first." 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

"You  needn't  tell  me  that.  I  know  his  wiles  with 
women;  he  would  not  make  any  mistakes.  He  would 
harp  on  the  string  which  vibrated  loudest — your  hatred 
of  the  commonplace.  Then  there  were  other  chords  to 
sound:  love  of  the  beauty  of  life  as  he  knew  you  would 
see  it  with  your  childish,  inexperienced  eyes.  And  all  the 
while  he  was  very  much  taken  up  with  his  own  emotions. 
And  the  dear,  sweet  child  who  thought  him  so  superior 
to  her  husband,  who  analyzed  his  cleverness  at  flirtation 
as  almost  anything  else  but  the  result  of  long  practice, 
stumbled  on  and  on — into  a  love  that  became  genuine 
enough  for  all  his  intents  and  purposes." 

Dorris  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"Did  you  ever  stop  to  consider,  Dorris,  how  many 
women  he  has  kissed;  that  every  letter  he  pens,  every 
word  he  utters,  every  look  he  gives,  is  planned  with  an 
eye  to — hm,  artistic  detail?  I  doubt  if  you  were  to  know, 
you  would  care  just  now ;  it  is  so  romantic  to  be  deceived, 
don't  you  see?" 

"You  think  he  has  organized  a  campaign  against  me," 
said  the  girl  smiling,  with  white  lips.  "I  think  that  is 
more  romantic  than  for  me  to  think  he  has  not." 

"Let  us  not  call  it  dishonour  in  him,  then;  let  us  sup- 
pose he  acts  on  the  spur  of  impulse,  the  code  of  his  coun- 
try, on  the  suggestions  which  he  persuades  himself  are  but 
the  refinement  of  culture.  In  what  way  does  that  alter 
your  position  in  the  matter?" 

"I  do  not  understand,"  stammered  the  girl. 

"Of  course  not,  but  you  understand  that  you  have 
laughed  at  your  husband's  appeals  to  return  to  him;  at 
me  for  trying  to  make  you  see  things  in  their  true  light. 
In  your  nineteen  years  young,  you  fancy  the  wisdom  of 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

the  ages  has  descended  upon  you;  intelligence  is  yours — 
therefore,  experience  need  not  cast  the  balance,  not  at  all. 
What  you  cannot  reason  out  by  the  light  of  your  gigantic 
intellect  is  so  much  nonsense.  Gossips  get  a  clutch  upon 
you;  and  no  matter  how  good  a  woman  may  be,  gossips 
will  throw  lassos;  if  they  do  not  catch  their  victim,  so 
much  the  better  for  her.  Now,  I  am  practical — are  you 
going  to  do  the  wise  thing?  (I  avoid  saying  'right'.) 
Are  you  going  to  prove  your  intellectual  development, 
your  good  blood?  Are  you  going  to  stay  here  and  ruin 
your  life,  or  are  you  coming  with  me,  back  to  your  hus- 
band?" 

The  boat  turned  into  the  Grand  Canal.  The  expres- 
sion on  Dorris's  face  puzzled  her  friend.  She  was  staring 
straight  before  her.  It  must  have  been  at  least  a  minute 
before  she  said: 

"Cordelia,  tell  me:  Am  I  that  despicable  woman  you 
have  painted?  Am  I  without  heart,  cold,  and  without 
honour?  Tell  me  that." 

"I  have  made  your  eyes  to  see — have  tried  to." 
"You  have  hurt  me  terribly,  you  mean." 
"As  the  surgeon  hurts — to  effect  a  cure.  You  are  not 
merely  a  pretty  woman,  Dorris,  but  a  woman  whom  ar- 
tists rave  over.  Such  a  woman  is  in  danger  when  she 
meets  the  artist.  I  do  not  necessarily  mean  an  artist  who 
dabbles  with  paint  on  canvas.  Understand  me.  Now, 
Cenari  is  essentially  an  artist  in  his  treatment  of  women. 
He  has  an  inexhaustible  capacity  for  falling  in  love — and 
out  again  at  precisely  the  psychological  moment.  If  he  is 
sufficiently  interested,  he  lays  his  snares;  and  if  he  catches 
his  little  game,  he  is  very  tender  in  his  devotion  for  the 
length  of  time  his  devotion  lasts.  It  really  doesn't  take 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

any  of  the  spice  out  of  life,  this  sort  of  thing.  But  why 
take  such  men  seriously?" 

"Cordelia,  I  think  you  have  a  very  bad  mind  to  think 
such  awful  things  of  men." 

"Well,  never  mind  my  mind;  just  think  of  what  I  am 
saying,  and  whether  it  is  true  or  false.  Inevitably  the 
man  neglects  and  the  woman  atones.  The  more  clever 
and  elaborate  the  trap  that  has  been  laid,  the  heartier  will 
be  his  laughter — afterward.  Why,  Dorris,  for  mercy's 
sake,  open  your  eyes.  Mr.  Barker  anticipated  this  very 
thing  when  he  knew  you  and  Cenari  would  most  likely 
meet.  He  knew  the  man,  you  see." 

"How  wise  all  my  friends  have  been  for  me,"  said 
the  girl  bitterly.  "Even  Mr.  Barker  thought  me  a  silly, 
it  seems." 

"Mr.  Barker  tried  to  prevent  a  meeting  between  you 
and  this  Italian,  not  so  much  because  he  thought  this  or 
thought  that,  but  because  he  knows  life — and  men.  And 
he  would  undo  the  wrong  he  so  unwillingly  did  your 
father,  through  your  mother's  perfectly  blameless  love. 
The  idea  of  your  falling  seriously  in  love  probably  never 
occurred  to  him;  but  he  would  save  you  from  anything 
unpleasant — so  very  unpleasant  as  even  the  mention  of 
your  name  with  Cenari's  might  come  to  be." 

Dorris's  eyes  were  brimful  of  tears. 

"Here  we  are  at  the  Palazzo  Spechio-Torni,"  went  on 
Cordelia,  her  voice  dropping  into  old  tenderness.  "But 
we  are  still  drifting,  and  I  want  my  little  Dorris  to  think 
more  seriously  than  she  has  ever  done,  what  the  outcome 
of  this  game  must  be." 

"You  want  me  to  go  back — where  I  can  never  even  see 
this  man  again?"  pleaded  the  girl. 

254 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"Dorris,  there  are  only  two  ways — only  one,  really, 
but  we  will  consider  another.  Would  you  enter  into  a 
liaison  with  this  man — make  a  secret  pact  with  him  while 
your  husband  is  reposing  absolute  trust  in  you?  Are  you 
raving  to  that  extent,  Dorry?  I  don't  for  one  minute 
credit  it?" 

"Sometimes  I  think,"  said  the  girl  with  a  note  of  hard- 
ness in  her  tones,  "that  you  want  so  much  credit  for  my 
turning  out  well,  seeing  you  brought  me  up,  that  you 
can't  see  further  than  your  nose!  Have  you  no  idea  of 
what  this  love  is  that  I  am  fighting  hard  to  overcome? 
Did  you  never  love  any  one  at  all  ?  I  can  see  how  the  mat- 
ter stands,  perfectly.  But  I  love,  and  I  am  not  ashamed 
of  it.  I  love  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  I  love  so  much 
that  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice  my  very  soul,  my  honour, 
my  life, — you,  Harry,  Heaven,  Hell!" 

"And  all  for  a  man  who  wouldn't  sign  his  name  to  a 
letter." 

Dorris  faced  her  with  flashing  eyes. 

"So!  You  have  been  mean  enough  to  read  my 
correspondence,  eh?  I  suspected  something  of  that 
kind.  It  has  been  coming  to  me  slowly  but  surely,  that 
you  are  a  hypocrite,  and  if  there  is  one  vice  more  than 
another" — 

"Be  quiet,  Dorris!  What  are  you  saying?  7  tamper 
with  your  mail.  You  must  be  mad.  But  I  see  I  have 
guessed  right.  He  is  not  quite  so  clever  as  I  imagined, 
for  I  supposed  he  would  avoid  writing  at  all.  That  is 
generally  the  game.  The  accomplished  Latin  lover  will 
travel  usually  around  the  world  to  see  a  woman,  but  never 
write  her  a  line.  A  man  like  Cenari  does  not  seek  the 
society  of  young  girls;  he  is  not  a  marrying  man.  He 

255 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

would  pass  by  a  pretty  girl — out  of  mere  selfishness.  It 
would  cost  him  too  much  to  fall  in  love,  but  that  would 
not  prevent  his  kissing  her  on  the  stairs  or  compromising 
her  in  a  way  which  would  not  react  upon  himself.  For, 
once  the  question  of  marriage  were  eliminated,  he  is  no 
more  on  his  guard  than  with  another  man's  wife." 

"How  perfectly  horrible,  Cordelia.  You  take  all  the 
romance  out  of  life." 

"Well,  what  right  has  a  woman  who  does  not  love  her 
husband  to  wear  her  heart  upon  her  sleeve  ?  A  man  who 
looks  upon  every  woman  as  fair  game  sees  his  justification 
then;  it  is  really  too  bad  to  make  things  so  easy  for  men. 
Nature  herself  has  beaten  us  at  that;  our  supplements  are 
food  for  laughter." 

"Do  you  mean  that  if  I  had  not  been  married,  he 
would  not  have  noticed  me?"  asked  Dorris. 

"Oh,  he  might  have  had  you  in  his  mind  more  or  less 
as  a  pretty  picture.  But  do  you  think  he  would  have 
made  love  to  you?  The  utmost  he  would  have  done 
would  have  been  to  bide  his  time." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  would  not  have  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  if  I  had  been  free?" 

"Not  as  long  as  there  are  canals  on  Mars  and  in 
Venice." 

"Cordelia !" 

"The  cruelty  of  men  is  more  subtle  than  most  women 
get  to  know,  thank  God!  But,  Dorris  mine,  you  can't  go 
through  life  hugging  illusions.  You  can't  stumble  along 
in  the  twilight.  Harry  Van  Lennep  may  not  be  a  hero  of 
romance,  but  he  has  paid  you  the  compliment  of  an  hon- 
ourable, high-minded  man,  in  making  you  his  wife,  in  risk- 
ing the  whims  and  idiosyncrasies  with  which  a  woman  of 

256 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

your  temperament  may  scatter  the  best  intentions  in  the 
world." 

"And  this  is  what  love  really  is,  to  women  like  you, 
to  men  like  Cenari  —  to  the  world?"  cried  the  girl 
despairingly.  "It  is  only  a  beautiful  dream  to  the  very 
young." 

"Dorris,  you  will  laugh  at  this  summer  ten  years  hence. 
You  will  fancy  you  must  have  been  mad.  You  have  mis- 
taken desire  for  love,  that  is  all.  Love  is  different." 

"How?" 

"You  must  live  it  to  know.  I  cannot  tell  you.  But 
what  I  know  is  that  men  like  Cenari  cannot  love.  Life 
avenges  itself  upon  them,  after  all,  and  the  sweetest  things 
are  withheld,  because  of  the  waste  places  of  license.  Now, 
Dorris,  understand  me;  you  are  a  married  woman,  and  I 
will  treat  you  as  such.  Have  you  considered  for  one  mo- 
ment whether,  for  instance,  Cenari  would  elope  with 
you?" 

The  girl  looked  thoughtful. 

"Do  you  think,  Dorris,  that  he  is  brave  enough — unsel- 
fish enough — to  form  one  of  those  lasting  attachments 
which  the  world  forgives  ?  Not  Paolo !  Why,  he  would 
run  the  other  way  if  your  passion  for  him  were  not  so 
evident  that  it  guarantees  his  mastery  of  the  situation.  A 
man  who  has  such  a  generous  capacity  for  affection  that 
he  can  love  a  hundred  before  your  time,  can  love  a  hun- 
dred after  you  have  been  shifted  from  the  scene." 

Dorris  sighed  deeply,  but  still  did  not  speak. 

"The  very  idea  of  Fitzgerald  Bedford's  daughter 
making  a  spectacle  of  herself  with  such  a  man  as  Cenari 
fills  me  with  fervent  disgust.  You  who  have  given  your 
lips  only  to  your  husband,  to  defile  them  by  contact  with 

257 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

those  of  a  man  capable  of  valuing  them  as  he  values  his 
eternal  cigarette?  It  is  really  laughable,  after  all." 

"Cordelia,  you  will  break  my  heart." 

"De  Musset  has  said, — 

"  'Le  moitie  vous  aime 
Pour  passer  le  temps.' 

And  because  a  good-looking  artist  who  has  won  his  place, 
is  tired  of  old  faces  and  wants  a  flirtation, — up  you  bob 
like  a  Jack-in-the-box  to  furnish  the  material.  Oh,  you 
are  not  the  first  woman  who  has  been  a  goose!  Dorris, 
dear,  come  back  with  me  to  America  and  end  this  melo- 
drama." 

"Cordelia,  how  can  I?  How  can  I  after  Italy — and  all 
I  have  experienced  here?" 

"Our  country,  Dorris,  has  yet  to  make  its  history;  but 
you  know  the  happiest  nations,  like  the  happiest  persons, 
are  said  to  have  no  history.  But  it  is  the  great  republic 
of  the  world;  it  has  new  blood,  it  is  experimenting  with 
new  policies.  It  was  America,  Dorris,  who  gave  the  in- 
centive to  science  by  first  giving  religious  liberty  to  her 
citizens.  We  are  building  up  our  country.  We  have  not 
the  salon,  we  have  not  the  culture  to  initiate  it.  But  let 
some  one  like  you,  young,  and  beautiful,  and  rich,  do  her 
utmost.  After  all,  you  are  not  a  Greek  or  a  Hindu  or 
even  an  Italian;  you  are  an  American.  We  may  as  well 
look  at  things  as  they  are.  The  world  is  changing,  ideals 
are  shifting,  and  even  kings  are  not  now  what  they  were. 
Be  yourself;  cease  trying  your  husband's  patience.  Show 
him  that  you  appreciate  his  trust.  How  many  men  would 
have  borne  what  he  has  borne  from  you?" 

"Let's  think  of  this  some  other  time,  Cordelia." 

258 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

"No,  now  is  the  accepted  time.  Renounce  this  folly, 
and  go  back  sustained  by  the  knowledge  that  you  gave  up 
something  for  duty  and  honour.  Duty  may  be  harsh  and 
Anglo-Saxon,  but  it  is  the  salt  of  development." 

"I  dare  say  you  would  be  happy  to  see  me  go  back, 
open  up  the  mildewed  Virginia  house,  and  organize  yearly 
hunts  after  poor  little  rabbits  or  something  like  that." 

"You  have  the  means,  the  looks,  the  chance  to  become 
a  social  power.  Why  deliberately  throw  it  away?  Estab- 
lish a  delightful  circle  in  New  York,  and  be  its  most  inter- 
esting figure.  Be  the  right  sort  of  wife  to  the  husband 
you  have  chosen;  make  him  so  proud  of  you  that  he  can 
deny  you  nothing.  And,  Dorris,  be  a  mother;  you  cannot 
feel  the  joy  of  that  until  you  know  it.  I  love  to  think  of 
the  golden  heads  of  the  future  which  will  hide  in  your 
lap  for  evening  prayers,  whose  little  lives  will  be  bound 
up  in  you.  And  as  they  grow  up  into  companions,  the 
eldest  boy  with  your  father's  name,  perhaps,  riding  in 
the  dear  Virginia  woods — when  the  sunset  is  on  your  hair, 
Dorris,  dear!  And  you  would  plan  his  whole  life  and  be 
all  in  all  to  him.  A  man  of  culture,  an  athlete,  your  dear 
son;  all  his  work  at  Yale  or  Princeton — whether  as  the 
best  student  or  as  captain  of  team,  or  stroke  of  crew — all 
planned  with  reference  to  his  magnificent  mother.  It  is 
the  sons  of  such  mothers  as  you  might  be  who  make  na- 
tions such  as  Venice  once  was,  nations  of  poetry  and  ro- 
mance as  well  as  of  material  power." 

"And  my  daughter,  Cordelia,"  said  Dorris  naively, 
"what  of  her?" 

The  older  woman  smiled  indulgently. 

"She  would  be  sought  by  the  great  ones  of  the  earth, 
by  dukes  and  princes,  for  there  shall  be  nothing  lowly  in 

259 


The     Strength     to     Yield 

my  proud  Dorrls's  outlook, — and  you  have  this  to  take 
or  leave  in  contrast  with  short-lived  happiness  whose  end 
shall  be  desolation  and  hate.  And  renunciation  would 
make  you  tender,  Dorris;  your  unconscious  hardness 
would  be  melted  in  the  glow  of  sympathy,  for  you  have 
known  the  temptation  and  could  look  pityingly  upon 
others'  sorrows  which  you  yourself  perhaps  narrowly 
missed — by  going  right !  And,  remember,  it  is  the  giving 
up  that  counts." 

"How  colossal  your  arguments  might  be  if — if" — 

"If  what,  girlie?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  can  express  it  just  as  I  should 
like.  I  hear  a  voice  inside  me  crying,  'Eat,  drink;  you 
live  but  once.  Take  what  life  offers.  Do  not  spurn  the 
gift.  It  is  half  divine.  When  you  are  an  old  woman, 
you  will  see  what  a  waste  your  prudery  has  left.'  It  may 
be  the  voice  of  the  devil,  but  it's  loud.  'You  are  young. 
The  dryads  had  their  liberty.  So  have  you.  Love,  love, 
lovel" 


260 


The     Strength     to     Yield 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Into  the  Night. 

"Am  I  writing  to  you,  Paolo  dear,  or  am  I  jotting 
down  the  wild  thoughts  that  have  come  to  me  this  night? 
I  cannot  say  whether  you  are  ever  to  read  it  or  not.  The 
spell  of  the  awful  night  is  over,  its  nerves  and  misery 
sped;  and  I  think  perhaps  my  youth  is  to  end  with  the 
words  on  this  paper — perhaps  it  has  vanished  already. 
Oh,  where  am  I?  Has  it  been  a  terrible  dream?  My 
watch — I  will  see  what  the  hour  is.  Four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  after  a  night  of  struggle  and  hopeless  yearning. 
I  write  as  I  feel  now.  What  care  I  if  this  letter  is  so 
foolish  that  I  can  never  send  it  to  you?  I  will  then  keep 
it,  and  read  it  years  later,  when  my  hairs  are  white  and 
my  beauty  gone.  Has  it  gone  now — the  charm  that 
lured  you  to  win  my  love  in  such  an  unfair  way?  Well, 
you  have  won  it,  dearest.  I  love  you,  love  you,  love 
you — 

What  happened  to-day?  Oh!  Paolo,  to-day  Bonti 
took  me  to  the  poison  closet  upstairs — What  am  I  saying? 
Oh,  yes!  There  was  prussic  acid  there.  Yes,  and  I  saw 
Bencio  open  it.  To-night — what  did  I  do  ?  Oh,  Paolo — 
Cordelia  showed  me  the  path.  Dear,  wonderful  Cor- 
delia !  Did  she  show  me  the  true  light,  or  was  it  merely 
what  happened  to-night?  Yes,  that  was  it — what  hap- 
pened to-night — that  is  it — Bonti  left  the  key  with  me 
this  morning.  I  went  up-  in  the  dark — how  long  ago  was 
that? — went  up  alone  to  open  that  dreadful  closet  of  the 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

Torn!.  You  know,  Paolo,  my  mother  took  prussic  acid. 
It  must  have  been  her  spirit  calling  me,  for  it  was  upon 
me — the  madness.  I  cannot  express  myself  as  I  would, 
for  the  excitement  has  been  too  great.  Do  not  mind  this 
rambling,  impossible  letter,  for  of  course  you  are  never  to 
receive  it.  After  I  had  sat  and  fought  with  my  problem, 
the  terror  of  it  all  seized  me — gripped  me,  and  for  how 
long  was  it  I  was  mad!  The  only  things  I  saw  were 
devils  creeping  near  me,  telling  me  what  an  easy  release 
was  in  that  prussic  acid.  Fancy,  Paolo !  the  madness,  the 
folly  of  it !  Then  my  mother's  voice  was  singing  to  me, 
telling  me  of  the  sweetness  she  now  enjoyed.  Death  him- 
self seemed  hovering  over  me,  wooing  me  with  cruel 
caresses — caresses  that  promised  much  joy  if  I  would  but 
yield.  If  I  would  give  myself  to  Death,  he  told  me  he 
would  give  me  eternal  love — the  love  I  have  unconsciously 
yearned  for  all  my  life.  I  understand  my  mother's  temp- 
tation if  his  voice  was  so  alluring  and  his  kisses  so  sublime. 
You  see  I  raved.  Fancy,  Paolo,  being  wooed  by  Death! 
Death!  Death!  That  was  it  with  my  mother!  He  had 
her  in  his  wonderful  embrace.  His  embraces  are  even 
sweeter  than  yours — forgive  me,  if  I  say  so — but  he  has 
left  me  now.  And  do  you  know  why,  Paolo,  dear?  After 
I  had  removed  that  dusty,  spooky  damask  from  the 
shelves  up  there  and  had  touched  the  bottle — I  seemed  to 
see  a  light.  What  was  it?  A  subconscious  something  in 
me  I  presume  that  was  strong  enough  to  win — yes,  the 
light.  What  did  it  do?  Why,  it  made  me  drop  that  ex- 
quisite bottle  upon  the  floor — that  bottle  filled  with  deadly 
poison.  It  must  have  taken  years  to  design  it — it  is  a 
piece  of  work  that  is  purely  Italian,  and  that  ought  to 
please  you,  though  I  suppose  you  would  laugh  if  you  ever 

262 


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read  this!  You  will  not  have  the  chance  to  laugh 
though — 

One  thing  is  true  and  I  wish  you  knew  it,  Paolo.  There 
is  a  God !  Not  the  God  of  Wrath  that  dogma  tells  us  of, 
but  a  God  of  Mercy  and  Love !  Yes,  a  God  of  that  great 
human  frailty — Love ! — else  what  was  it  that  caused  that 
light  to  shine?  It  was  not  the  Devil,  for  he  had  been 
luring  me  to  kill  myself.  Insanity,  that  was  it — for  a 
moment  it  had  urged  me  to  be  a  coward — to  commit 
suicide !  But  I  am  whole  again  now — I  am  sane.  The 
light  came  and  told  me  my  mission. 

So  I  am  sitting  here  at  my  writing  table  in  an  old  Vene- 
tian gown  that  Bonti  made  me  keep — it  was  in  the  chest 
upstairs.  It  is  exquisite — perhaps  you  might  really  love 
me  if  you  saw  me  in  it — and  a  purple  cloak — how  you 
would  love  it,  Paolo !  But  you  will  never  see  it. 

And  so,  amor  mio,  my  love  story  is  over,  and  I  have  a 
long  life  to  live,  but  it  shall  be  a  life  that  will  make  dear, 
dead  Daddy  happy,  and  I'm  going  to  try  with  the  help  of 
the  Light  that  shone  to-night,  to  make  Harry  a  good 
wife — and  I  love  you — that  is  the  wonder,  the  glory  of  it. 
God  has  sent  me  the  weakness !  I  have  not  the  strength 
to  yield.  God  has  shown  me  what  real  beauty  means. 

All  my  life,  dearest,  I  shall  think  of  you.  I  do  not 
even  hate  you  for  what  you  have  done!  Nothing  could 
make  me  hate  you,  Paolo.  How  I  wish  I  could — but  that 
would  make  renunciation  too  easy.  That  is  not  His  way ! 
It  takes  courage  to  be  weak  and  courage  to  be  strong — I 
have  been  such  a  selfish  girl  all  my  life,  that  I  must  pay 
the  price  by  suffering  now.  You  told  me  once  we  all  paid 
a  price  for  what  was  worth  while !  and  it  is  worth  while 
to  be  a  good  woman ! 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

I  wish  you  would  think  of  me — only  occasionally — 
but  don't  forget  that  night  in  the  Colbrizzi  garden,  or  at 
San  Lazzaro,  where  I  first  began  to  feel  my  love  for 
you. 

Strangely  enough  I  am  not  ashamed  of  myself.  I  am 
glad  I  went  to  your  studio !  and  glad  you  have  kissed  me ! 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  like  your  kiss,  Paolo,  ex- 
cept the  kiss  of  Death, — and  that  was  madness ! 

There  is  one  thing  I  fear;  it  is  age!  What  will  my 
old  age  think  of  my  weakness?  After  all  I  have  a  right 
to  live!  Can  I  renounce?  Have  I  the  power? — Oh!  it 
was  only  a  soft  breeze  from  the  window  that  made  me 
doubt  my  weakness.  Who  knows?  Some  day  I  may  call 
it  strength.  Oh!  That  last  ride  of  ours  together — the 
twilight  air  kissing  my  face  as  I  rushed  through  space! 
The  strength  of  your  tender  arms  as  they  checked  my 
horse,  and  the  warmth  of  your  lips  as  they  clung  to  mine ! 
I  shall  never  forget — never,  never  1  And  the  day  you  were 
Leander  in  the  Adriatic ! 

I  wonder  if  it  was  propinquity  that  was  the  cause  of 
my  love  for  you,  for  Mr.  Barker  spoke  to  me  of  you 
in  Greece,  and  seemed  to  foresee  the  coming  event.  As 
Cordelia  also  warned  me,  you  were  thrown  in  my  path, 
and  I  thought  more  about  you  than  I  would  have  other- 
wise. Well  what  difference  does  it  make  to  'thee  and  me'  ? 
Doubtless  I  would  have  loved  you,  under  any  circum- 
stances. Yet,  Paolo,  I  am  not  sorry;  it  has  opened  my 
heart,  and  I  shall  always  be  thankful  that  I  have  known 
the  great  force  of  life. 

How  hopelessly,  unendurably  long  the  days  will  be, 
sweetheart,  without  your  sympathy — even  if  it  was  a  ruse 
while  you  were  with  me.  I  shall  always  dream  of  the 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

understanding  you  seemed  to  feel,  and  try  to  persuade 
myself  it  was  genuine! 

Finish  that  portrait  of  me,  Paolo,  please.  Let  it  be 
the  face  of  the  woman  who  gave  you  her  kisses,  which 
she  has  only  allowed  her  husband  and  you  to  enjoy — not 
the  haughty  girl  you  met  at  Lady  Blanchard's  dinner,  and 
not  like  the  sensuous  Lady  Cheltenham,  but  just  Dorris 
Bedford — as  you  saw  her  in  the  garden  here,  or  at  your 
own  palace.  Perhaps  you  think  me  a  fool  for  my  course 
of  action.  Men  like  you  might  say  it  was  inane,  still 
you  must  respect  me,  when  you  realize  the  sacrifice  I  am 
making. 

I  am  going  to  America — to  the  land  where  I  was  born, 
and  I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  see  Italy  again.  Ah!  how  I 
have  loved  it!  Strange  that  around  it  should  cling  the 
sweetest  of  memories,  for  my  thoughts  of  it  will  ever  be 
of  my  father  and  you !  Perhaps  if  I  am  patient,  I  can 
make  Harry  over — make  him  a  man  like  Daddy — even 
school  him  for  the  diplomatic  service,  and,  Paolo,  who 
knows  but  I  will  one  day  have  the  strength  to  sit  beside 
you  at  a  dinner  table  ?  Oh !  all  this  talk  about  the  future 
when  the  present  is  so  hard  to  bear!  I  must  leave  this 
City  Beautiful !  How  happy  Cordelia  will  be  when  I  step 
into  her  room  in  the  morning  and  tell  her  I  will  take 
the  steamer  from  Naples!  Think  of  the  love  she  bears 
for  me !  it  makes  up  for  your  insincerity.  Oh !  why  are 
the  things  enjoyable,  so  hopeless — so  cruel — so  over- 
powering ! 

How  the  Duchess  whose  gown  I  am  wearing  would 
laugh  at  me ! — but  I  would  tell  her  my  temptation  was 
merely  the  fire  of  Spring — yes  gioventuf  And  mine  is 
over.  Oh!  it  is  not  years  that  count — it's  the  heart. 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

Mine  grew  old  when  I  woke  up  to  reality,  and  that  was 
when  my  fingers  pressed  the  bottle  of  poison.  The  non- 
sense of  it — all  for  love.  But  Venice  must  needs  add  to 
her  many  tragedies,  my  own  humble  one — and  how  hum- 
ble it  is  when  I  lay  it  at  the  ruins  of  this  once  great  Re- 
public. What  difference  can  only  one  unhappy  life  make? 
The  life  of  a  foolish  little  American  girl — buried  till  to- 
night in  the  tinsel  of  romance !  And  you  knew  it,  so 
you  played  upon  me. 

It  seems  I  will  not  allow  myself  a  farewell — no!  the 
last  meeting  shall  remain  as  it  does  now — your  'good- 
night,' and  your  kiss  on  my  fingers.  Addio,  addio, 
Paolo!  there's  death  in  that  sting.  Oh!  how  my  heart 
aches — how  I  want  you,  Paolo!  How  I  shall  always 
want  you,  for  I  love  you — not  as  you  loved  me — yet  I 
haven't  the  strength  to  yield!  I  must  leave  for  Naples 
to-morrow,  or  the  deadly  nerves  might  work  havoc  again. 
How  they  tore  me  and  rent  me  and  hurt  me!  They 
must  have  been  part  of  my  mother's  mania — and  I  hope 
I  am  released  from  it.  I  made  a  great  effort  with  my 
will,  and  I  won!  Oh,  the  struggle  of  those  midnight 
hours ! — it  was  as  if  I  were  a  soul  in  Hell  in  bitter  torment. 
Was  it  only  a  few  hours  ago? 

That  mirror,  Paolo !  it  frightens  me !  Look  at  my  face ! 
It  is  as  changed  as  that  of  Dorian  Grey,  when  he  met 
his  death.  Why  that  sweet  expression — I  never  saw  it 
there  before.  How  strange — it  looks  like  soul!  I  know 
it  was  the  Light!  It  was  the  Light!  Oh,  that  I  shall 
ever  see  it!  I  am  going  to  try  to  write  a  farewell  to 
Italy;  the  verses  are  coming  to  my  lips.  How  wonder- 
ful— yes,  it's  a  good-bye  I  am  saying  from  the  steamer 
at  Naples,  with  Vesuvius  over  there.  Will  I  be  able  to 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 

compose  ?  Why,  I  have  never  tried — I  must  write  as  this 
poem  enters  my  mind.  What  did  I  see  in  my  face? 
Could  it  have  been  Genius?  as  a  reward  for  not  having 
the  Strength  to  Yield?  It  is  the  Light !  It  brings  the  lines 
to  my  lips.  How  wonderful !  Here  they  are,  Paolo,  dear, 
as  they  come  to  me! 

For  long  I  basked  in  thy  dear  smiles 
And  felt  with  rapture,  all  thy  guiles. 

I  breathed  the  scent  of  fabled  pines; 

My  heart  sought  out  thy  crimson  shrines. 
On  waterways  beneath  thy  moon 
I  caught  the  pulsing  singer's  tune, 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world! 

Here  Vergil  sleeps,  his  quiet  grave 
A'haunt  with  spectres  of  the  brave. 

Here  Horace  lost  his  soul  in  verse; 

The  City  flamed  'neath  Nero's  curse ! 
The  land  of  Ovid's  loveless  home, — 
The  seven-storied  hills  of  Rome. 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

Verona  saw  me  at  her  grove, 

Where,  lonely,  sleeps  the  Slave  of  Love; 

O  where  the  roses  ever  bloom — 

The  land  of  Dante's  exiled  tomb! 
Where  shrills  the  cicala's  clear  song, 
And  lingers  still  Fra  Lippi's  wrong, 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world! 

I  saw  the  cell  where  Tasso  spent 

His  great-souled  grief,  his  last  lament. 

The  seat  of  dark  Othello's  rule — 

The  mystic,  deep  Cyrenian  pool; 
The  land  where  Adonais  pondered, 
Singing  soft  lyrics  as  he  wandered, 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world! 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 


Here  Faliero  lingered  long 
A'listening  to  Angela's  song; 

Raphael  died  in  beauty's  arms ; 

Here  paled  the  gentle  Cenci's  charms; 
Cellini  boasted  'neath  those  trees, 
Whose  shades  were  cooled  in  Florence  breeze. 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

Thou  shrine  of  hearts  and  home  of  art, 

Grant  me  thy  wisdom  ere  we  part, 
The  smile  of  sweet  Corregio, 
The  yearning  of  great  Angelo! 

Endymion's  perfect  harmony, 

The  tragic  Prince  of  Poetry ! 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

Now  some  harsh  judgment  of  the  North 
Drove  Byron's  glorious  genius  forth, 
To  seek  of  thee  his  meed  of  praise, 
And  sing  thy  most  impassioned  lays ! 
He  took  thee  to  his  soul  sublime 
And  made  thee  his  beloved  in  rhyme, 
Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

I've  loved  thy  fairy,  petalled  flowers, 
Each  bird  that  wings  thy  fragrant  bowers, 
Through   leaf-lined  ways  Alfieri 
Has  wandered  with  his  Albany; 
And  many  a  sign  and  symbol  tell 
Of  how  the  Brownings  loved  so  well, 
Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

'Neath  Santa  Croce's  dome  I  stood 

And  revelled  in  Ravenna's  wood ! 

Yes,  on  thy  happy  shores  I've  dwelt, 
And  on  my  lips  thy  kisses  felt — 

A  min  thou,  for  eyes  to-day, 

But  faultless  in  thy  dear  decay! 
Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

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The     Strength     to     Yield 


But  even  tho'  I  lose  thy  smiles, 
And  be  a  stranger  to  thine  isles. 

My  knee  will  bow  to  worship  yet, 
My  pen  will  rhyme  its  vain  regret; 
Thy  fame,  to  me  a  poem-book, 
Shall  ever  own  my  fervent  look, 
Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

Again  to  tread  thy  world- worn  ways? 
To  breathe  thine  air,  to  live  thy  days? 

Apollo's  love  were  not  more  sweet ! 

I  touch  thy  sands,  they  kiss  my  feet ! 
Thy  very  weeds  are  fairest  flowers, 
Thy  wooded  groves  Elysian  bowers. 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

Now  comes  the  dreaded  day,  when  I, 

With  tender  prayer,  must  say  good-bye. 
Wilt  promise,  promise  me  once  more 
To  see  thy  lonely  cypress  shore? 

That  in  the  din  of  daily  strife, 

Thou'lt  be  an  idyl  in  my  life, 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world ! 

Oh,  Paolo,  dearest,  let  thy  voice 
Make  this,  my  aching  heart,  rejoice! 

Addio,  now,  each  cypress  sings! 

Ah,  me !  the  dismal  parting  stings, 
And  down  yon  peak  the  lava-flood 
Writes  out  the  last  farewell  in  blood ! 

Land  of  beauty,  land  of  love, 
Italia,  the  flower  of  the  world! 


'finitol 


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